The Conceit of a Happy Life
by Amaniachwen
Summary: The Z Warriors don't always have it bad, but they never have it normal. In the decade of peace after DBZ ends, a new warrior crashlands on Earth and causes a stir in the Vegeta house. This story follows the events that take place before GT. Please R/R.
1. Plunging

The Conceit of a Happy Life

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Chapter 1

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Plunging

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The control panels aren't responding. My spacepod pitches over and over itself, shrieking as it shoots through the layers of atmosphere. My skull cracks against the walls. I feel my face explode. I lose control of myself and vomit, too aware of my oncoming death to care about my stomach juices splattering everything, mixing with my blood. Life is violent, I decide. We enter in pain, and we depart in pain. What exists in between is pain. Agony and frustration erupt from my chest and roar up through my throat. My sanity shatters, and I know no more.

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Voices reach my ears, and I stir.

"Holy shit, it's alive!"

"Should we do something?"

"Of course we should so something! Help him, you guys!"

A pair of arms lifts me from the ground.

"Not much to the little guy." A soft voice both from above and rumbling through a firm chest at my ear.

"Because he's been torn into a bloody rag." A deep, harsh voice.

"Goku, damn it, you don't just pick up an injured person like that! You could break his neck!"

"Oh, right. Sorry, Bulma."

"God, you could have just teleported to Korin's to get a senzu bean or something, but now that you've moved him, I need you to wait a second while I think—"

"Right! I'll go to Korin's!" My head presses into his chest as the male draws his hand upward.

"No, Goku! God damn it, I said wai—!"

Sudden silence. Then the air is different.

"Holy Kami! Goku, give a little warning 'fore you do that, would ya?"

"Sorry, Yajibrobe, but it's an emergency. I need a senzu bean for my friend here. Where's Korin?"

Who says 'friend' so casually, I wonder blankly.

"Takin' a catnap."

"Oh. Well, can you help me?"

"I could…" the Yaji-whatever guy says, and by his hesitation I can tell he is eyeing me suspiciously.

"Sooner would be better, you know."

"No need to get your panties in a twist about it. What happened to him anyway? And who is he?"

"His spacepod crashed. Or kind of exploded and then crashed. Or vice versa. I was downing a few fried chicken legs at the time, and it was all kind of sudden."

"Tch. A true warrior knows how to handle his food and the unexpected at the same time. You could learn a thing or two from me, Goku. I'm mindin' my own bnusiness, slurpin' a bowl of ramen when you show up and scare the shit outta me, but do you see any of it spilled? Hell no. Because I know how to handle myself."

"You are a master eater, Yajirobe…"

"Damn straight. Ah, here's the bag."

"Great! I just need one. Or maybe two, judging by the look of him…"

"Not yet. You didn't answer my second question."

"Which was?"

"Who is he? I don't just go around handin' out free senzu beans, Goku. 'Specially not to beat up aliens. I wanna know this ain't like the time you gave a senzu bean to Cell during the freak bastard's Games."

"This isn't like that, Yajirobe. This guy is just…I dunno, some guy. Not an enemy as far as we know."

"As far as we know, huh? Just some alien who crash-landed his spacepod on our planet, right? Not an evil goddamn bone in his body even? Or at least not one that ain't broken." I can feel him eyeing me again.

"Even if he is an enemy," says the one called Goku, "he will be my responsibility. You know I can handle it, Yajirobe. Now give me the senzu beans."

"Tch. You better know what you're doin', Goku…"

"Don't worry. It will be fine."

Some movement occurs, shifting me slightly. Two fingers press a small something past my lips.

"Chew," instructs the soft voice. "You are awake, aren't you?"

I try to utter something—anything—but nothing…

A hand cups my jaw and moves it up and down for me. Something tells me this would have infuriated the Bulma from before.

"Okay, now swallow."

The crushed bean dribbles to the back of my throat. I choke, but some of it gets down, and the cloud of pain begins to dissipate.

I open my eyes.

"Hi!" smiles the one called Goku.

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The air abruptly changes again.

"Goku! You're back! How is he?" cries the Bulma.

"He's better. Suspicious, though. He needs another senzu bean, but I couldn't get him to take it. Maybe he'll be more trusting after a bit of rest," Goku says, carrying me down a hall and into a bedroom.

"Hey, that's my room!"

"Trunks, it won't kill you to sleep on the couch for a couple nights," the Bulma snaps.

"Ha ha!"

"Shut it, Bra."

The Goku one lays me down on a bed.

"There ya go," he says, then over his shoulder he calls, "Hey, Bulma, think we should clean him up or something?"

"I'm getting the first-aid kit and some wet washcloths now. Vegeta, wash your hands, so you can take care of this."

"Me?" the deep voice from before barks. "Why me, woman?"

"Because you have the most practice cleaning up bloody cuts and throttled bodies," she replies.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he shouts.

"Vegeta, with the way you train, you've made yourself the best male nurse of all the known universes. But if you'd prefer, I'll be our guest's female nurse and take care of all his needs and—"

"Give me that damn kit, woman," the Vegeta snarls, stalking into the room.

In the light from the hallway, I see a satisfied smile on the female's lips before she turns and leaves.

"Thanks, Vegeta. Listen, I'm gonna hit the hay, but call me if you need anything."

"You owe me for this, Kakarot," the male growls.

"Sure thing," is the reply as he leaves, waving over his shoulder.

The one called Vegeta and I are alone in the room. He hasn't turned the light on, and he stands fiercely in the dark. Both of us can see. He is trying to be threatening. He takes the two brief steps to the side of the bed and stands there, looming over me, a stance I suppose has worked on beings lesser than myself. He continues this way for a while, perhaps a few minutes, unblinkingly glaring down at me, studying me, trying to make me crack.

But if that's his aim, he'll be standing there all night.

He eventually gathers as much and chooses his next words carefully.

"I'm sure Kakarot is eager to become your friend, and some of the others might jump on the proverbial bandwagon, too. But know this, you pitiful sack of bruised organs—I hope with every fiber of my being that as soon as you can move you try to attack us because the fight—while laughably easy—will be nothing short of a delight for my Saiyan bloodlust."

I narrow my eyes at him, my teeth clenched. If my mouth weren't dry, I would spit in his face. He moves to the first-aid kit, opens it, and takes out a bottle and clump of cottonballs. Then he turns just enough that I can't see what he does next.

"Now," the bastard says, turning around and roughly grabbing my damaged armor by the shoulder pads, "don't move while I do this. And for god's sake, don't enjoy it."

Conceited bastard! I open my mouth to fling the foulest curses I know at him, but he moves faster than my tongue and shoves damp cottonballs between my teeth. Fumes rush into my throat and nostrils, and everything burns.

"Why don't you take a nap while I clean up the mess that you are?"

My eyes are practically swimming in ether, and the last thing I see is the Saiyan wretch's gloating smirk sink into a seething frown as he rips away my chest plate. The last thing I hear is his infuriated correction of the mistake they've all been making since the crash.

"Kakarot, you incompetent ass—it's a god damn woman!"

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To be continued…

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A/N:

Thank you much for doing me the courtesy of checking out my story. I hope that I have done my part and made this first chapter entertaining/appealing enough to entice you to read further.

~Niach


	2. Reaching Out

The Conceit of a Happy Life

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Chapter 2

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Reaching Out

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I wake to sunlight floating through drawn blinds. I am alone but for the voices carrying in from a few rooms away. They are indistinct in their enunciation, but clearly the same ones from the night before.

Turning down the blanket covering me, I raise my head slightly to determine the state of my body. Gone are my warrior gear and boots. In their place white bandages extend from my feet to…I bring my hand to my face, and yes, there are bandages there, too. I wonder why these people are taking such great pains to heal me. But I know the motive of the Saiyan called Vegeta, I recall with a snarl.

One of the voices approaches.

"Mom, it's my room, and I need to get my stuff," it complains. "I'm tired of waiting."

"Fine, Trunks, if you want to be an inconsiderate host and wake up our poor bedridden guest, then great, you do that. I won't stop you," snaps another voice, also coming nearer.

"God, Mom, why do you have to be like that? I just—"

"Just be quiet about it, dear," his mother sighs. "If we haven't woken her up already."

It suddenly dawns on me that they're about to enter the room I am in. I quickly resume my sleeping position and close my eyes, just as the door inches open and a tentative footstep sounds throughout the otherwise still room. All is silence, and I feel the stare of this other upon me. I carefully mimic the leisurely, measured breaths of sleep. The other body in the room lingers at the door for a few moments before noiselessly and deftly moving about the room, gathering the needed items. Then it moves closer, till it stands beside the bed. I am reminded of the Saiyan from the night before, though this one is apparently called Trunks.

As Vegeta did, this one looms over me for a moment. His form blocks the rays of sunlight and casts a shadow over my torso. For that little of my arms isn't bandaged, I can feel the fine, sensitive hairs tingle, and then I realize, _Shit, I didn't—But maybe he won't notice…_

But I know he has when he reaches over me and picks up the corner of the turned down blanket. He pulls it back across my bandage-covered form.

I chastise myself for the slipup, but let none of my anger affect my features or posture. Instead, I faithfully adhere to my already established state of unconsciousness.

The Trunks stands there for another minute before departing as quietly as he entered. I remain still, counting out ten full minutes, before I shove aside the blanket and pull myself up into a sitting position. My muscles and insides and everything else ache. I feel nauseas. But my instincts take over, and they direct me to get the hell out of this place.

With a swift pull of their cord, I contract the blinds and flood the room with clean, natural light. I blink as my eyes adjust, and feel along the window for its latch.

I hear the door swing open behind me and the same step from before. This time he doesn't bother with silence.

Damn it, I'm caught before I even leave the freaking bed, much less the horrid room.

I turn to confront the bastard, eager not to waste the potency of the livid scowl across my face.

In a glance I survey his appearance: unimpressive stature, odd-colored hair, and a piercing gaze not unlike that of the Saiyan Vegeta. He is not poised to fight, but his very slight crouch suggests he is ready to defend himself if necessary. He seems unsure what to do next, like he's waiting for me to make the first move. I decide I want to watch him squirm.

He doesn't last long before he blurts out, "So, uh, you look like a mummy all wrapped up like that. Heh heh…"

I have no idea what a 'mummy' is or why the hell he thinks that's funny. I withhold any response save for arching a vague eyebrow at him.

_Shit, even my eyebrows hurt._

"Where are you from?" he asks.

Again I do not respond. I'd rather see how long he'll go on talking without answer.

"You could at least say something, you know. Like 'thank you,' for instance? This is my parents' house, and they're doing you a kindness taking care of you."

I remain unfazed.

"Giving you shelter, changing your bandages…"

This really is entertaining.

"And this is my room, which I haven't been able to use for the past three days because of you—"

Wait, what was that?

"Three days?" I have to ask.

The one called Trunks opens his mouth to reply, but then thinks better of it. He lines his lips together, and the corners curl into a smirk. The wretch has turned my own game against me. I really, really hate it when that happens.

Can't take it back now, though.

"How long have I been unconscious?" I demand.

The memory of the Saiyan choking me with the ether-soaked cotton balls flashes to mind, and I grind my teeth angrily.

"The one who stripped my armor from me—he poisoned me. That miserable, cowardly Saiyan overpowered me with chemicals instead of his fists. He—"

And the string of curses I wanted to hiss that night now burst from my mouth in ruthless succession.

When I finish, the Trunks one's smirk is more pronounced, and the gleam in his eyes sharper.

"Yeah, my mom wasn't too pleased with him when she found out," he says. "By all purposes you should be dead because of it, but don't worry about taking revenge—my mom's already seen to it."

"How?" I demand.

"It's probably best we not go into it," he says, the smirk shifting to a look of disgust.

I continue to glare at him, searching for a better answer than this.

"There are some things no one should ever know about their parents. What their parents do…or don't do…in the bedroom is the first item on that list," he explains.

"I'll take your word for it," I say, not amused with the pointless direction this conversation has taken. I could be miles away from here by now if he hadn't barged in…

"Look," the offspring of that Saiyan bastard says, picking up on my impatience, "I get that you're mad. That's generally the effect my dad has on people. But don't let him get to you—the rest of us kind of like having weird alien visitors crashlanding in our backyards and setting our trees on fire."

I arch an eyebrow at him again. "Really?" I ask, doubting the sanity of both him and his family.

"No," he smirks. "But we won't hold it against you."

"Good to know," I say tersely, annoyed by how cool he thinks he is.

"Yeah," he says, glancing at all my bandages once again before reaching for the doorknob. "Anyway, I have some stuff to do. Get some rest, okay? I'll let my mom know you're up."

He closes the door, and I hear him walk off down the hall.

I'm alone again, and a wave of exhaustion suddenly comes over me. I don't want to do it but I sink back beneath the blanket, rest my head back on the pillow. If these weirdos are going to pamper me and let me heal here, then maybe I won't leave immediately. But that's a decision I'll leave for when I next wake.

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

And another chapter down. Again, thank you for reading, and again, I hope my hard work is proving interesting enough to persuade you to read the next chapter. And, I hope, to leave a review. ; )

~Niach


	3. Breaking Out

Disclaimer: I keep forgetting to add these, but this time I will not! Attention, one and all! Contrary to popular opinion amongst people you've never met, I do NOT own DragonballZ. That is all. Thank you, and good night.

Also, I'm going up to Mystic, Connecticut for the weekend with my seminar class. We're studying Melville and Stern and just finished reading _Moby-Dick_, so we're going to go check out whaling stuff. And we're visiting Mark Twain's house, which, honestly, sounds a ton cooler to me than taking an airplane all the way up there just to sit on a boat and go to boat museums and stuff. And this trip is consuming my entire weekend to boot. Oh, woe is me! (;_;)

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The Conceit of a Happy Life

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Chapter 3

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Breaking Out

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My next moment of consciousness comes when the one called Bulma arrives sometime later. I surmise that this must be the mother Trunks mentioned, but she does not appear to be a Saiyan. To be honest, I am surprised to have encountered any Saiyans at all—from what I know, their race was supposedly wiped out years ago.

Yet this handful survived. I sneer at the irony of this as I continue to ignore the Bulma's attempts at conversation. She soon gets the picture that I don't want to talk, but instead of going mute, she continues to chatter at me as she changes my bandages. With that arrogant Saiyan Vegeta as her apparent mate, she has likely had much experience dealing with the reticent, standoffish behavior of a warrior.

The female finishes with my bandages and leaves. When she came in, she brought food, and now that she's gone, I dive for it. She was a little exasperated I wouldn't eat in front of her, but what did she expect? Like hell am I going to open my mouth again with any of these creatures nearby. Not after the stunt that damned Vegeta pulled with the ether. And I'm still pissed with myself for unnecessarily talking with that Saiyan half-breed Trunks.

I halt the next handful of food to my mouth and consider. A half-breed. That weird-haired boy is… Yes, the irony is painfully clear. Isn't it? My arrival here is seeming less and less of a coincidence, but how…

The door opens, jarring me from my thoughts. Trunks enters the room.

He looks at me sitting up in the bed, my fist still poised to shove the next clutch of food into my mouth. I self-consciously put the food back on the plate, wiping my hand along the edge to smear away the residue on my palm. I stare at him defiantly, daring him to crack another lame joke at my expense, ready to strike him if he does.

"I'm just here to grab my bat," he says coolly, picking up a narrow club propped against the wall. "Don't mind me."

As he turns to go, his eyes briefly linger on my half-devoured plate of food, and a small smile comes to his lips.

That knowing little smile is like a trigger, and my pride quakes within me. Him—anyone—seeing my necessity—I suddenly hate myself for being caught accepting their food, their so-called kindness, their damned charity, whatever these ridiculous offerings are. I hate the look on his face and the pity behind it, and I hate that I'm stuck in this room and this bed like I'm some sort of invalid or prisoner. The anger and hatred and humiliation are suffocating—This situation is suffocating—This damn room is suffocating—I suddenly can't breathe in here—Not with the option for freedom so close…

The next thing I feel is fresh air on my skin, the coolness seeping through my bandages, invigorating all my bodily senses. My hair whips my face as I jet off across the land, wanting to dive into the horizon and never turn back. My lungs fill and my voice catches as the wind whistles past my lips to the back of my throat and strangles the animal urge to cry out my exhilaration. This freedom is breathtaking—this life my own!

"Foolish bitch!" thunders a voice behind me, and suddenly the air beside me is full of electricity as a blast of ki shoots past so close the bandages on my right arm sizzle and char.

Never pausing in my flight, I look over my shoulder at the attacker and see Vegeta in hot pursuit. This irritation registers as no surprise, but damn if I'm not carnally stoked for the confrontation.

"What's wrong, Saiyan?" I taunt over the wind. "Your little mate send you out here?"

In response he fires at me again, this time with actual intent to strike, but I deftly spin out of the way.

"I don't have time for this cat and mouse bullshit," he barks, raising his glowing fist in the air. "Conscious or comatose, you're going back to that house, you androgynous little—"

A separate ball of ki explodes in front of the Saiyan, drowning out his following curses.

As the smoke clears, I make out another body.

"Dad, what the hell! You aren't supposed to attack her!" shouts Trunks as he rushes between his father and me, in vain assuming the role of mediator. "Mom's furious! She's calling Goku right now and threatening to fly out in the jet if we're not back in ten minutes."

"Damn that woman for interfering!" Vegeta growls, clenching his fists. "Why is she bringing Kakarot into this? This little bitch didn't blow a hole out of his god damn house."

"Dad, it wasn't even your room."

"Every part of that house is my domicile, brat!"

Though highly amused by the Saiyan's family squabble, I am determined not to be ignored.

"Has the mighty Saiyan warrior fallen to domestic ruin?" I jeer, smirking.

Vegeta's glare darts back to me, and I hover with my hands on my hips, not in the least intimidated by his hateful expression and palpable rage.

"Trunks, I'm taking care of this. Without your mom and without Kakarot. Stand aside."

"But, Dad—"

"Stand aside!" he barks and knocks Trunks—foolishly unguarded—out of his way with a swing of his fist.

"Wow. To your own son," I sneer, assuming a defensive position. "What a loving daddy you are, Vege—"

His name dies on my lips as his fist connects with the side of my head and I lurch to the side, barely managing to catch myself before he strikes at me again. I can't block it in time, so I instead take the hit to my ribcage and make ready for the coming deluge of blows. Soon we're a swarm of fists and feet, our limbs colliding again and again. My endurance fails me almost immediately, and I quickly find myself fully on the defensive, unable to land even a single punch or kick.

"And you thought you could stand against the Saiyan Prince, did you?"

Past the flurry of our arm movements, I see my opponent smirking at me. He sees my fatigue as clearly as I do and knows I won't last much longer.

But I'm prepared to do whatever I can to wipe that smug look off his face.

I pitch forward to headbutt him, but he raises an arm and blocks me easily, and I take this chance to sucker punch him in the gut. My fist rams his firm stomach, and he emits a small, gratifying grunt of pain. The sound makes me grin, makes me greedy, and I look up—wanting to see his contorted face—but I linger just a second too long.

"Pitiful wench," the Saiyan scoffs, not the least affected as he grabs my hair with one hand and my legs with the other. I struggle against him, but he's too strong, and in a single swift movement slams my spine against his raised knee. Spit flies from my mouth, and my vision blurs. He has knocked all the air out of me, and my lips gape open, feeble and fish-like.

He holds me up by my hair, no doubt still smirking, and I bare my teeth at him in open defiance.

"Weak" is the word he breathes before he bashes my face with his forehead. And as if that weren't enough, he gut-punches me at the same time. When he pulls away, he makes another derisive remark, but my ears are ringing too loudly to hear. Probably something stupid like 'that's how it's done' is my cloudy thought of disdain as he releases me to fall to the ground far below.

And the air that felt so soothing such a short while ago now stings my skin and the fresh, open wounds. I try to suck in a breath, but the cold clamps my throat shut. I can feel my mind teetering, on the verge of blacking out.

But a pair of strong arms catches me and a voice, not as soft as I remember, shouts Vegeta's name.

"There you are, Kakarot. Just in time to see the bitch surrender."

"You should have used more restraint, Vegeta! She's already black and blue all over!"

"More restraint? Ha! I fought her as I would a child."

_Restraint?_ my mind buzzes angrily. _He fought me with restraint?_

My eyes are open, but I see nothing. Their argument continues, and their words swirl around in my head, their implications confounding, impossible. Am I really nothing more than a child to these creatures? Is my powerlessness because of my prior injuries? Or despite them? I will not allow the thought.

My unseeing eyes shift upward, following the direction of the Saiyan's voice. I do not know if I imagine his form there, or if it truly is the only thing I can see right now amidst this perceived world of whiteness. Intentionally—mechanically—I slip my arm outside my supposed savior's cradling embrace and reach upward, pointing at the blurry Saiyan figure, which may or may not be a product of my imagination. Numbness enters my body as I feed all my hatred and anger into the tip of my index finger, concentrating it there until a small red gleaming ball of light takes shape. The corner of my mouth twitches in gleeful anticipation as the following plays out in my head: I shoot the Saiyan through the heart, it dies, and I am victorious. Free. A scene so simple and yet so exquisite. Exquisitely simple…

I draw myself back to the act—aiming for this most certain near future—when a hand closes over my own, effortlessly extinguishing my Death Beam as the strong wind does an insignificant candle. The impossibility of the action startles me, and I gasp, my throat finally unclenching. I stare at the hand holding my own and see them both clearly. I blink, and all else comes into focus. Lifting my eyes to meet the gaze of the one called Goku…and Kakarot…I am confused to find him smiling at me.

"It's best if you put that away," he says, tucking my arm around my abdomen. "You could poke someone's eye out with that thing."

Again with the stupid jokes, I wince bitterly, struggling to stay awake. But as it's been my habit since coming to this godforsaken planet, I once more lose the fight against myself and descend into a deep and murky unconsciousness.

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

Another chapter ripe and ready. : )

Thank you for reading, and thank you in advance for leaving a review. *hint hint* *wink wink* *nudge nudge*

~Niach (^ ^)/

P.S.

Fight scenes are startlingly difficult to write. It's difficult keeping the actions straight in my mind, difficult finding the right way to describe them, and difficult to keep it all fast-paced and intelligible and logical at the same time. Holy cow, golly gee sheesh, and hoo wee. But I think/hope I pulled it off okay. : )

Review Responses:

Lord Sneeze: I hope the pace and content of this chapter was more to your taste. Boring, indeed. Dude, if you weren't my brother… j/k ; )

aspideringossamerwebs: Thanks for the review! I suppose the chapters do have a bit of a laidback feel, perhaps because of their brevity (or maybe the fic's tone?). However, I think (/hope!) that they will indeed "pick up" in the future. ; )


	4. Making Acquaintance

Disclaimer: If-a you think-a I own the DBZ, then you stroke-a my ego a-far too much. ; )

And Dragonball: Evolution opens tonight! I figure it'll either suck and be a complete bastardization of the source material, or be surprisingly decent. Either way, I plan to laugh my ass off. XD

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The Conceit of a Happy Life

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Chapter 4

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Making Acquaintance

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Fucking…I'm beginning to realize now just how much new damage I've taken from the the confrontation with Vegeta. I wince from the pain, but there's an unexpected restriction. My body is bound tightly in new bandages, most heavily around my pummeled midsection. Nausea…I may vomit. But these discomforts are minor. Minor compared to the overwhelming—indeed the only—need right now to make that wretched Saiyan feel even a fraction of this pain.

Preferably to make him feel it several times more.

Lurching forward into a sitting position, I snap my eyes open, suddenly aware of the presence of others in the room.

Or rather, the presence of a damn mob.

The room, a different one from Trunks's, is filled with bodies, all eyes staring directly at me.

"It wakes," smirks Vegeta, who is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, not a scratch on him.

…yet.

I fight against the urge to yell at him, instead ripping my glare from him and taking inventory of the others surrounding me. There's a tall green guy consuming an entire corner of the room, bearing a scowling expression similar to Vegeta's. Beside him is a man with glasses and a clean haircut, holding hands with a young girl whose other hand is clasping that of a short-haired woman I assume to be her mother. Four others—a man with three eyes, a blonde woman, a short guy, and a man too old to wear his hair in a ponytail—stand together in front of a fireplace. A Goku/Kakarot look-alike is sitting on a table and apparently in the middle of whispering something to an adolescent dark-skinned boy while Trunks shushes him. Bulma is standing next to Vegeta, along with an aqua-haired girl I take to be their second half-breed child. And then there's Goku sitting beside me on the couch, looking annoyingly calm and unnervingly cheerful.

"Don't worry, we're not going to hurt you," he says pleasantly.

"Anymore," he corrects when I scowl murderously in Vegeta's direction.

"We don't believe you're here for evil purpose, not after the way you damaged yourself with your landing"—I swear to god, all of these assholes are trying to incur my wrath on purpose—"and to be honest, you're not strong enough to pose much of a threat to us," he explains bluntly.

I literally hiss in response to this so casually stated blow to my ego.

At the same time, though, I know that what he says is true.

"We don't want to hurt you," he repeats. "But we do have some questions."

I glare sharply at him and wait for him to continue. The humiliation of having fourteen other people present for this interrogation is insufferable.

"The attack you were going to use against Vegeta, that Death Beam…" Goku begins, the apparent leader of this inquisition. "Where did you learn it?"

"On another planet" is my spiteful reply.

Goku betrays no annoyance and clarifies, "What I mean is, who taught it to you?"

They all wait expectantly for my answer.

"My father," I assert, and shock etches across the faces of everyone in the room.

Save for one.

"I knew it!" growls Vegeta. "I could see it in those murderous eyes."

"You're one to talk, Daddy," says the half-breed girl beside him.

"Silence, Bra. This is something you don't understand," her father snaps, his fierce gaze fixed directly upon me and yet not seeing me as something from another time haunts him. "Those same red eyes…"

"Vegeta, that doesn't add up," his mate points out. "For one, she doesn't look like him at all, and for another, she's way too young to be that monster's daughter."

"Does her appearance or her age matter?" the Saiyan retorts. "Your knowledge of the likely possibilities of this situation is woefully limited."

"Dear, how old are you?" Bulma asks, ignoring him completely and addressing me.

Slightly thrown off by the unexpected and wholly unwanted endearment, I recall the information given to me by the spacepod's calculations before the piece of shit malfunctioned and state, "Sixteen years."

"See?" Bulma says with satisfaction.

"Years by which measurement?" Vegeta presses, now ignoring her and equally determined to prove his point.

"By this planet's," I snap at him. "Nineteen in Saiyan years. Eight in Namekian years—" My eyes flashing to the green guy. "—And over thirty, mostly unrealized years by my lord and father Frieza's hand."

They all stare at me, confused and uncomprehending.

Again, save for one.

"What did he do to you?" Vegeta asks, guessing at the possible truths, and aiming to extract the correct one directly and without compassion.

I straighten my spine and assume a confident and self-possessed demeanor despite the sharp pain of the movement and position. These creatures do not deserve to know anything about me. I have no reason or desire to reveal information about myself and my experiences.

But when my back twinges sharply, forcing me to submit once more to a lowly slouch, my spirit wavers, too. It dawns on me that I have no choice but to speak to this mix of monkeys and weaklings—they'll get it out of me eventually whatever games I play. I gaze across the room to the opposite wall and fix my eyes upon a still life portrait of fruits and vegetables hanging there. I'll be damned if I look at or otherwise acknowledge any of them while I do this. My answer spills forth robotically.

"I am the bastard product of Lord Frieza and the Saiyan bitch he raped…my mother—" Bulma gives a shocked gasp. "—Surprisingly, she did not kill me while I grew in her womb. Instead, she hoped I would one day avenge her by fulfilling the prophecy of the Super Saiyan. She hated me before she knew me, but she still birthed and raised me. All for the sole purpose of ending Frieza's rule."

No one moves, but the short guy leans forward, watching me intently. I ignore him as I did Bulma and continue.

"Frieza did not know of her pregnancy, much less her plan, until some years later, at which point he tortured and killed my revenge-crazed mother and took me into his charge. He debated back and forth about what he would do with me. He forced me and those around me to number the pros and the cons of my life and my death, weighing my worth like I was a god damn bag of rice. He couldn't decide whether to kill me or to keep me—so he ultimately did what amounted to both: when he wanted me, he made use of me, and when indecision crossed his mind, he locked me up in a chamber to freeze me—in effect halting my existence—until he again deemed me suitable for his purposes."

Yeah, it's not a speech I've ever given to a listening audience, but I've sure as hell bitterly run it through my head a thousand times before.

The shock on their faces when I finish is loathsome. Only Goku and Vegeta show no surprise, though the latter's gloating conceit is a fraction reduced.

The ponytailed old man is the first to speak.

"So did he…send you here?" he utters warily.

"I do not work for that tormentor!" I shout, and Goku intervenes before I blow a fuse and dive across the couch to rip the revolting follicles from the fool's skull one by one. I recoil from the touch of Goku's hands on my shoulders and hiss, "I work for no one! My mother died by the mistake of her own madness. I do not mourn her, and I do not act to execute her wishes—my grievance with Frieza is my own. By my hand he will suffer the last moments of his life for what he did to me."

The silence this time is different. I'm not sure how, but…

"Frieza's already dead," Goku says bluntly.

What the hell?

I search his face for deceit, but find nothing lurking behind the idiotic sincerity of his honest mask.

My eyes snap to Vegeta.

"You!" I hiss.

Vegeta challenges my glare with equal hatred—maybe more—and growls lowly, "It would have pleased me greatly."

So it wasn't him…?

I swivel my head around, looking to the others. All of them—every single one—look so fucking innocent I again feel the urge to retch.

"Which one of you did it?" I seethe, the bile rising dangerously in my throat. I'm sure it's one of these hateful creatures who's robbed me of my retribution, and when I know which one, I swear he'll die the death my father should have.

Goku hesitates for a moment, trying to find the right words.

"The man who did it…he, well, disappeared, you could say," he explains poorly, even making himself confused, judging by the idiotic expression on his face. "Heh heh…"

"Who is he?" I growl, cutting short his nervous laughter.

"He no longer exists…in this time, that is…"

"Tell me who he is!"

"Look, I can't. He's not a part of this universe—"

"Tell me his name, or I swear to god I'll—"

But the bile wins out before I can finish my sentence.

Bulma makes a startled groan, hastening to my side. "Trunks, get the bucket and carpet cleaner. Krillin, grab some towels."

They hurry out of the room at her orders, and Bulma sits beside me on the couch, quickly gathering my hair and holding it back for me. I shrug away her help, snarling, "I'm done," in reference to both my nausea and this damned inquisition.

Krillin and Trunks are soon back, the former tending to the carpet while Trunks uselessly coaxes me to take the bucket.

"If you don't mind, I'm tired and want to go back to bed," I snap at them in an angry attempt to establish some semblance of power over their suffocating prison-guarding tactics in nurse guise.

"While we would very much like to fulfill your every command," Bulma snaps back sarcastically, "I am afraid that you literally and figuratively blew your chances for such privacy when you blew a hole through my son's wall. You're more than welcome to stay, but until we can trust you again, you'll be sleeping here on the couch where everyone in the house can keep a closer eye on you."

Her matter-of-fact authority on the issue both infuriates and silences me, and for a brief quarter of a second I feel sorry for her Saiyan mate for having to put up with her. But then a wave of apathy washes over me as I realize two things: my future is now uncertain, and all my efforts futile. My one goal in life, to take revenge on the hateful being that sired me…gone. And the enigmatic asshole who beat me to the punch and stole my thunder…apparently gone, too.

"Fine," I say scathingly and roll sideways into the couch, pressing my face into the back of it as much as I can stand, trying to shut away the light and the voices and the rest of reality.

"Come on, you guys, let's give her some space," Goku says, rising and beginning to usher the others out of the room.

"Wait," says Trunks, not moving from his spot.

"What's your name?" he asks.

I debate whether or not to divulge this piece of information as well, but I figure everything else has already gone to hell—they've cut me open and laid me bare enough already—why not let the vultures pick the last scrap of me as well?

"Chiru," I say, voice muffled by the cushions.

Trunks doesn't say anything to this, and neither does anyone else. They all file into the next room and begin making plans for dinner. They act like ingenuous heroes now, but when they think I'm asleep they'll start discussing what I've told them and decide what to do with me next. Hell rise up if I let these fools patronize me one minute and then plot against me behind my back.

Suddenly, over the din of their conversation, Trunks shouts, "Wait a minute! I was sleeping on that couch!"

"Trunks, it won't kill you to sleep on the floor for a couple nights."

"Ha ha!"

"Shut it, Bra!"

I grind my teeth together, not knowing whether to cackle or cry.

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

And thus the name and origin of the narrator are revealed! For all you oyaji-gag fans out there, "Chiru" is a play on the English word "chill," in homage to her father, uncle and grandfather, whose Japanese names are puns on "freezer," "cooler," and "cold," respectively.

Again, thank you for reading, and I hope you continue to do so. : )

`Niach

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Reader Responses:

daughteralucard: Thanks for the nice review! I hope you found your way back to my story to read this chapter and like how things are unfolding! : )

mystery: WHY. THANK. YOU. Heh heh Seriously, though, thank you very, very much. ; )

Lord Sneeze: Your high praise astounds me. lol

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P.S. to the A/N

Connecticut was pretty awesome, but I gotta say that the traveling portion of the trip was ass. I'm not much of a drama queen (am I? I'm pretty sure I'm not), but there were several times on that trip when I wasn't sure the ten of us were going to live. The jerk pilots from Lexington to Detroit, and from Detroit to Hartford couldn't land for shit, and it was kind of terrifying. Imagine being bitch-slapped in midair. That was our descent. Hor-fuckin'-rific.

Also, my seminar prof. had very questionable driving skills. Very questionable. Each van ride was a nerve-wracking experience, and he nearly merged into a semi at one point.

Good things happened, too, though. Got to row a boat, which was cool, and my team won the boat race (only because a girl in the other boat caught a crab with her oar (which just means her oar caught in the water), and she nearly fell out of the boat, and the oar broke—good times). Also heard an old guy sing awesome sailor songs. He was amazing. I could have listened to him all day. And saw an anchor-dropping demonstration, which rocked my socks. Even though I missed the hitting-the-water part because I was trying to get my camera to work, but hitting the wrong button and completely missing the chance to take a video of the anchor-drop. Sigh.

Anyway, just thought I would update for those who care / were slightly interested in any of that at all. Which might be no one. Ah, well. (And just to throw it in—Mark Twain's house was the shiz. I'd love to live there.)


	5. Finding Release

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ. This is nothing new. Incidentally, I do own Akira Toriyama and keep him in a very comfortable space beneath my bed. He has a sleeping bag and pillow. And some bug spray should any wayward bug or spider find its way into my hobbit hole of a room. Toriyama happens to like corn chips. That is all.

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The Conceit of a Happy Life

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Chapter 5

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Finding Release

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I don't sleep at all, and Goku brings me food when I refuse to leave my position on the sofa to eat with everyone else. I scarf my dinner in silent solitude before burrowing back into my couchy nest. Eventually, everyone leaves, save for the Saiyan and his family and the Goku-look-alike. Vegeta and Bulma and Bra go to their respective chambers, but Trunks and the other boy—his friend, I surmise—settle down in the chairs opposite the couch, most likely under orders to keep watch on me through the night. Practically reduced to a house pet, I restrain the feral urge to growl.

"Anyway, Trunks, as I was saying earlier," the unidentified one whispers excitedly, assuming I'm asleep. "That girl from my chemistry class is dying to get a piece of me! She moves in close during lab and stuff, you know, to touch me without it looking like she wants me. But you know me, I can read a woman's subtle ways same as I can read the back of my hand."

_What does that even mean?_

Trunks chuckles at his friend's boast. "Good to know you're making the most of your college education," he says at a normal volume, declining to match his friend's whisper.

"Dude," the girl-happy one hisses. "Be quiet or you'll wake her up! Girls hate that. This one girl in history once—"

"She's not asleep, man," Trunks insists, ignoring his friend's advice.

"No, I'm not, but I would prefer if you both shut up just the same," I snap, already sick of their inane conversation.

"Told you," Trunks says.

"Don't tell us what to do!" the other exclaims indignantly. "You're younger than us! And you don't live here!"

"Do you?" I retort acidly.

"Hey, I'm a family friend. Have been for years. Tell her, Trunks."

"Goten's a family friend. Has been for years. I'm telling you," Trunks repeats in a bored voice.

"Gee, thanks for having my back, bro," the one called Goten huffs.

"Who says 'bro' anymore?" Trunks yawns, and I hear his bones pop as he stretches. "Not to mention 'gee'."

"Why are you being such a jerk?"

"I'm not being a jerk. I'm tired, and you keep talking."

"Because you keep talking back!"

Because Trunks declines to reply to this, the other's ill-concealed fuming is practically audible in the following silence.

"See if I ever fuse with you again," he grumbles.

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My dreamless sleep turns to chest-seizing nightmares, and I wake the next morning to a horrible cramp in my leg. I stifle a hiss of pain, wrapping my arms around the problematic appendage to try to force the seized muscles to relax.

"Charley horse?" Trunks asks from above me.

I glare up at him. My teeth grind together.

He lifts an eyebrow with an unchecked look of revulsion. "Doesn't that hurt your jaw?"

"Shut up!" I bark, irritated beyond everything to start the day off with even more ogling and humiliation.

"Just wondering," he says, shrugging. "I mean, it's just that you should be in enough pain already…"

"Then give me one of those damn beans," I snap. "The shooshoo beans or whatever you idiots call them." Part of my brain loathes to admit to pain and weakness, but my frustration overrides, making me blurt out whatever comes to mind, things I would normally hold back.

"Yeah, about that. My parents think it's better if we don't give you a senzu bean. They sort of think that we should just, uh…"

"Let me suffer?" I hiss menacingly.

"You did blow a hole through our house," he points out.

"Will everybody quit bringing that up? It wasn't on purpose!" I shout.

Trunks looks a little surprised. "It wasn't?"

"It was, but—I mean, I thought about it, but when it happened, it just happened."

"But you had intent?"

"Sort of."

"You should stop grinding your teeth—you're going to be dealing with recovery pains for a while."

I roar in frustration, grabbing the blanket—wherever the hell it came from—and throwing it over my head in an effort to put a complete end to the conversation.

"Suit yourself," Trunks snaps before heading off into the kitchen, and I'm glad he's pissed. I'm sick of him bothering me.

When he's gone, I pull the blanket down a smidge and survey the room. Empty. Goten must be in the kitchen, too.

This is my chance.

I noiselessly remove the blanket and climb to my feet. Every part of me hurts like hell, but I have something more pressing to deal with at the moment.

I'm barely out of the living room when there's a shout behind me.

"Trunks! She's making a run for it!"

I grit my teeth in anger and easily dodge Goten's tackle a second later. The moron doesn't want to drop the two bowls of cereal in his hands and didn't think to put them down before hurling himself at me. The milk from the bowls sloshes, and I growl as they dampen the carpet at my feet, splashing my toes. I immediately take off down the hall, hearing Goten clambering to his feet in hot pursuit. Rooms on either side of the hall rush by, but none contain my chance for release. I hurtle into another large room, wondering just how big this place is, when Trunks drops down in front of me from an indoor balcony overlooking the open space.

"Got you!" Goten crows, coming up from behind.

"Haven't you had enough?" Trunks asks, giving me a stern look. "You're being a brat."

"Yes!" I shout, clenching my arms around my middle. "I've had more than enough—I've had plenty! Now get your self-righteous ass out of my way, I need to piss!"

Trunks backs up, momentarily startled—even horrified—by my candid exclamation.

"Please," I scoff, pushing past him. "I'm not some delicate flower."

"Dude!" Goten exclaims as I start down another hall and soon find a washroom. I slam the door shut and lock it for good measure even though it doesn't matter, considering the at least three of the five people in this house could easily break it down.

"Finally some privacy," I mutter, yanking aside my bandages as I squat over the toilet bowl.

When I'm done and have flushed, I wash my hands, inspecting my reflection in the mirror.

"Holy—" I mutter, taking in my appearance. I look like death. A pissed off, enraged embodiment of death. My left eye is so swollen shut that it's as big as my fist. The bandages on my face look utterly ridiculous and downright disgusting with stains from and the puckered up bloody splotches of skin underneath. Where I'm not bloody and bound, I'm black and blue as far as I can tell, and my long hair is matted and filthy and horrendously tangled. I wouldn't let any of them wash it. Not after what Vegeta had done. With a grimace I recall how he used my hair against me to knee me in the back. _It was a damn mistake_, I tell myself. _Such is the price for your vanity_. I start opening drawers, seeking the tool for self-retribution for allowing myself even one conceited indulgence of beauty.

I find a small pair of shears, grab a fistful of hair and hack it off. More clumps quickly follow. The entire process probably takes some time, but once I start I can't stop. More and more of my tangled, blood-encrusted locks fall away until I'm looking at myself in the mirror with a scalp seemingly riddled with the precursors of mange. To hide the ghastly sight of my swollen eye, I have left one patch of length, but other than that…I may as well be bald. That would be less unsightly.

I glance at the hair coating the sink, counter and floor, and with a flick of the wrist instantaneously burn it away, leaving no sign of the shearing but a couple scorch marks on the formerly pristine surfaces.

When I exit the washroom, Goten and Trunks are standing in the hall waiting.

"Woah, you lit one hell of a match," Goten remarks as the fumes of burning hair seep into the hallway.

Then he and Trunks lay eyes my butchered mane.

"Holy Dende, what did you do?" Goten shouts.

"Eliminated a weakness," I reply to him tersely.

"And left a couple scorch marks," I put to Trunks, still so aghast he barely stutters a response.

"Trunks? Trunks, where have you three gone?" Bulma calls anxiously from the other room.

"Hall," he manages to croak back, unable to look away from the disaster my head has become.

"Oh, good, I was beginning to worry that something had happ—AAGH!" She interrupts herself with a scream as she catches sight of me.

"What the hell have you done to your hair?" she shrieks.

"It's my hair, and I decide what to do with it!" I shout, prickling at their idiot remarks.

"And I was going to brush it out for you today!" Bulma bemoans, putting a hand to her forehead like this is all some kind of travesty.

"Well, then, I've saved you a chore," I glare, crossing my arms.

Bulma sighs and shakes her head. "I really wish you would have waited. Your hair would be so lovely all combed out, and now you just look—"

"Look what?" I snarl, daring her to continue.

"Like a lunatic," she says forcefully, her temper snapping her from her short-lived woe.

"Ugh, and your bandages need straightening," she notes, her eyes flickering to just below my waist. She unexpectedly grabs my hand and leads me off down the hall.

"What are you doing?" I growl, trying to pull away, but her grasp is firm and I'm furious to find that I'm already fatigued by all the yelling and running around.

"I'm going to get you cleaned up and changed. You're certainly not bedridden anymore, and to be honest, you smell like a decaying corpse," she tuts.

"Ugh" and a string of grumbled curses are my only response as she whisks me off for what I fear will be a nightmare of relentless grooming. God, I hate these people.

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

This has been the easiest chapter to write yet! I love putting beloved DBZ characters into humorous and awkward situations, and that was my goal here. Zany and awkward is one of my favorite styles of writing. : )

And as always, I appreciate your thoughts and feedback!

~Niach

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Reader Response:

LordSneeze: Shenanigans that Mirai Trunks killed Frieza? I think not, sir! Yeah, SSJ Goku defeated Frieza first while on Namek, but Mirai technically killed the tyrant and his dad for good. Forever. For keepsies. At least that's my take on it. : )


	6. Bathing with Bulma

Disclaimer: DBZ is not mine yada yada yada.

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The Conceit of a Happy Life

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Chapter 6

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Bathing with Bulma

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"Ow!" I snap, jerking away from the q-tip prodding at the caked blood from a cut on my forehead.

"Oh, honestly," Bulma says impatiently. "I've barely touched you. Certainly this can't be any worse than what Vegeta did to you."

I don't know who I would rather admit has caused me more discomfort—Vegeta or his damned annoying mate—so I just scowl and say nothing more on the matter.

"You really are a piece of work," Bulma sighs. "And you look like hell."

I jerk away from her again, though not from physical pain this time. The first thing she did after the shock of my self-butchering haircut was give me half a senzu bean "out of fear for my sanity," she said, and I took it without argument, desiring some relief from the agony I've been in since my arrival. The portion of the healing legume was enough to modify the state of my organs and muscles from a constant pain to a dull ache, but it did nothing for my appearance, merely leaving it in the same bruised and ragged mess. And it's one thing to know myself that I've had the shit kicked out of me, but to hear someone else acknowledge it is entirely insufferable.

At my rebuff Bulma purses her lips in annoyance, but she continues calmly, "Once we get you all fixed up, you'll look ten times better. As I always say, 'A woman always looks best with a fresh face'."

I grimace, none too certain of her sanity.

When she's done poking at me, she runs the bath water, adding several balls of bubbling soap while politely asking me to take off the shirt and shorts she lent me and climb in. I have no qualms with nudity and comply without shyness or hesitation.

"Hm, that's interesting," she says.

"What's interesting?" I say aggressively. This woman has absolutely no tact when it comes to shutting the hell up about somebody's appearance.

"You don't have a tail," she notes, nodding at my bare backside.

"Neither do your offspring," I snap. "And probably for the same reason."

Bulma mutely nods to this as well, finally averting her eyes as she begins to put the ointments and first-aid box back into their respective cupboards.

"Be careful, it's hot," she warns me over her shoulder as I slide into the tub. The water stings, but I tolerate it with a low hiss. The suds surround me and give off a strong flowery scent that nearly makes me gag.

"What is this rot?" I choke out.

"Lavender and tea tree oil, among other things," Bulma frowns. "You know, you could say 'thank you' instead of complaining all the time."

"Thank you? For what?" I snap.

The older woman continues to frown at me, and I gloweringly slip down as low as I can in the bath, sulking beneath the suds.

Which, unsurprisingly, sting my face and scalp like a swarm of angry insects.

I erupt from the water, letting loose a cry of pain and rage.

"That wasn't very smart," Bulma says unsympathetically.

"Why?" the chief question bursts from my lips. "Why are you bothering? Why are any of you bothering? Why won't you just leave me alone?"

As I shout this brief diatribe, Bulma appraises me silently, readying her response.

"Because," she begins, "you need our help."

"So you're just doing this out of charity?" I scoff. "Please. No one does anything without wanting something in return."

Bulma considers this.

"We're not looking for anything from you, per say…" she begins slowly. "And I can't speak for the others when I say this, though I think this might be how they all feel deep down, but…we want to have you around."

"Like some sort of pet?" I snarl.

She meets my gaze, and for a second I take it as a challenge, but then I'm surprised to find her eyes sad. Not irritated or frustrated. Just sad.

"No, that's not it. It's a long story. A lot has happened to them—to everyone—over the past years, and finally our world has found peace. But for these guys—Goku, Vegeta, and everyone—peace becomes a cage of monotony for them. I think that…well, basically that they've all gotten bored."

I keep my eyes trained on her, scrutinizing her admission for any hint of guise, but she seems in all respects to be sincere.

"You're different, Chiru. You're something new and exciting for us. Not as a pet or a plaything, but as a person. I really mean that."

I feel my cheeks flush slightly, and I look away.

"The water's too warm. Add some cold," I order, but the command comes out mild and dull.

Bulma nods and reaches over the tub to twist the handle. I glance at her and catch a small smile of understanding playing across her lips. It reminds me of the smile on Trunks's face the day I tried to escape, however long it's been since then. That smile was the impetus for my violent lapse in sanity before, but this time, from Bulma, it does not feel so threatening. It's just sort of there. As I inhale the scent of the bubbly soap, I feel something akin to repose.

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It's not long until I hate the damned wench again.

"Ah, Bulma, you have provided me quite the challenge!" remarks the pompous-looking man looming over me, examining my reflection in the mirror.

"Don't you worry about a thing, Chiru," Bulma winks. "Raul's the best."

"Bulma, my dear, you are too kind," the one called Raul bows smoothly. "But entirely correct! Now, what shall we do with you today, poppet?"

At the ridiculous endearment, my eye twitches, and I grind my teeth.

"Oh! What a horrid sound!" he wails. "We'll have none of that! Not while Raul is here!" And the effeminate little shit grips my jaw with one of his long-fingered immaculate hands to stop the noise.

My eyes snap to Bulma's in the mirror, warning her she'd better get this guy off me right now. No one puckers my cheeks like that unless he's got a death wish.

"Raul, dear, take it easy on her. She's kind of…special," Bulma explains, stepping in to save her personal hairdresser his hand, if not his life.

"Special?" Raul repeats questioningly, and then something dawns on him.

"Oh! She's _special_."

He looks back at me with some new kind of understanding and says slowly and with careful enunciation, "I'm. Sorry. Chiru. Raul. Didn't. Mean. To. Upset. You."

What the fuck?

"I'm. Just. Going. To. Cut. Your. Hair. Now. Make. You. Pretty. See. My. Scissors? Aren't. They. Shiny?"

I am utterly incredulous and hugely pissed, and I share this with Bulma through another acerbic look via the mirror. She grins weakly and shrugs, unable to say anything in response.

"Okay. Now. Chiru. Gonna. Make. Nasty. Hair. Style. Go. Bye-bye. Don't. Be. Scared. This. Won't. Hurt. At. All."

I'm going to kill Bulma when this is over, I swear to God.

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When Raul is finally gone, no doubt sporting a comfy check in the pocket of his frilly yellow shirt, I don't know what to say. The cut isn't…not that there was much to begin with…I don't even care about it, really—it's just that Bulma won't stop with her enthusiastic appraisal.

"I just love what he did. It might not look like much now, but it's going to grow out perfectly. Better than before, I'm sure," she trills gleefully. "Good Dende, isn't he just the best? I know he can be a bit overwhelming, and I'm sorry about that, but really, what he does makes it all worth it, don't you think?"

"You sound like you're talking about a whore," I mutter, and to my surprise she laughs at my remark.

"It's true—I could say the same about Vegeta as I do about Raul: they're both a handful and a half, but the pleasure they give makes all of it so worth it."

And she winks.

"Ugh," I grumble. I think I see now what Trunks was talking about when he said there were just some things people should never know about their parents…or other people's parents for that matter.

"What, so you'll strip for me without a second thought, but you don't want to hear about Vegeta's and my sex life?" she teases lightly, ruffling my bangs. I'm still tender all over and it stings, but I don't stay so.

"The former was necessity," I clarify stonily. "You telling me anything private is not."

Bulma lets out another laugh. "I think I'm beginning to see just what kind of girl you are," she chuckles good-humoredly.

Fortunately, before she can attempt to bond with me any further, my stomach gives a well-timed rumble.

"Are you hungry? I'll fix some lunch."

I nod mutely and wait until she leaves. Once she's out of the room, I have nothing but my reflection to distract me.

It's short. It's really short. Shorter than it was before anyway, even the trimmed lock in the front. For an edgy chick look, Raul had simpered, sweeping it to the side to hide my still fist-sized left eye in favor of exposing my healthy right one. I don't see what's so 'chick' about it, though. I look like a boy. I look like some prepubescent male who's been malnourished and bullied to extremes.

Bulma tried. I probably owe her a 'thank you', but I really don't want to give it. When I cut off my hair, I effectively lost the last piece of my identity. The Saiyan and his friends have already proved me powerless, taken away my freedom, and forced me to abide by their rules; and now their lead female celebrates the stripping of my gender as if it's some kind of exciting makeover. The only thing the mirror shows me now is a beat up, patched up, cut up version of my former self, barely recognizable, and in some ways barely alive. Something in me has died, is in the process of dying, is rendering me pointless purposeless meaningless empty.

And I'll be damned if I say 'thank you' for any of it.

I rise from the stool in front of the mirror in Bulma's room and move sluggishly through the house back to the couch. It's so inviting now that I collapse onto it and curl up, wishing I were back in the spacepod, hurtling from one universe to another, simply moving, barely breathing, but going anywhere—being anywhere—but here.

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

Jeez, Chiru's getting freakin' emo in this chapter. Further shenanigans should snap her out of it, though, so get ready for the fun to come. : )

~Niach

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Reader Responses:

Lord Sneeze—Thank you much! : )

aspideringossamerwebs—Thank you for the very kind reviews! And Chiru is…a handful at best, so her saying nice things is going to take a while (though maybe not too long!) because her upbringing hasn't really…refined her…at all…hurm. She's got some maturing to do, and that will take some time, but I'm going to try to keep her fun along the way! Fewer chapters like the end of this one, at least. haha


	7. Getting Knocked Down a Notch

Disclaimer: If I owned DBZ, I probably would not have an English seminar paper due on Monday. Man, wouldn't that be nice. *sigh*

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The Conceit of a Happy Life

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Chapter 7

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Getting Knocked Down a Notch

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"You know, for the spawn of a tyrant like Frieza, she sure is lazy," I hear Goten remark dully.

"Is she sick?" a girl asks. Sounds like the Bra child.

"It's hard to say. She does sleep a lot…"

"Maybe she's just trying to escape. A psychological reaction or something. I mean, it's not like she has any other way to get away from us," Trunks reasons.

That any of these earth-dwelling imbeciles should presume to understand how I feel is infuriating. That they dare share their idiotic conjectures where I can clearly hear them is absolutely intolerable.

"If you're going to talk about me, do it ELSEWHERE!" I shout, wrenching the blanket from my face—where does the damn thing keep coming from? "God, don't you people have anything better to do than to stand over me gawking all the time?"

"Heey, check out the new 'do!" Goten exclaims. "It really suits you. You know, despite the…" And because he can find no words to describe my battered face, he instead waves a hand in front of his own to indicate nonverbally the state of mine.

"Goten!" Bulma barks. "How is that any way to compliment a woman?"

"Oh!" Goten says, catching his mistake. "Yeah, that didn't come out right at all. Sorry. Heh heh."

'Heh heh'? I'll teach him not to chuckle at me—

"It's too short," Bra says candidly. "Long hair is prettier."

"That's not a fair estimation of beauty, Bra. Don't you think my hair is pretty?" Bulma inquires with a shake of her short yet clearly stylish locks.

Bra watches her, unblinking.

"Long hair is prettier," she repeats, not at all dissuaded from her opinion.

"Bra, dear," her mother says sweetly. "Don't you have some choirs to do? I think I hear the garbage calling."

"No, it's not."

"Oh, yes, it is. It's saying, 'Take me out! Take me out right now, Bra'!"

"But it's Trunks's turn!" the girl cries indignantly.

"Yes, but Trunks also thinks his mother is beautiful, don't you, Trunks?"

"The most beautiful mother in the world," Trunks simpers with a twinkle in his eye.

"Liar, Trunks! That's not fair! I didn't say you weren't beautiful, Mommy—just your hair!"

"Trash. _Now_. Get your tushy moving, missy."

"But it's not faaaiiiir!" Bra wails as she stomps out of the room.

"Ha ha!" Trunks calls after her.

"I HATE YOU!" the child screams. And a door slams.

Ridiculous.

"Sorry about that," Bulma says with a small sigh. "She's quite the handful. And Vegeta's no help, the way he indulges her and treats her like a little princess. Well, I suppose she is a Saiyan princess in a way, but still—"

"Princess or not, where I come from she'd be beaten within inches of her life for that," I say coldly. "Such insubordination from a brat like that requires a firm hand—not useless excuses."

The smile disappears from Bulma's face, and she fixes her gaze on me. "Don't tell me how to raise my children, Chiru," she glares, all the good humor gone from her voice. The look in her eyes is enough to silence me, not least because I detect a hint of something unexpected…disappointment?

"Trunks, Goten, if she wants to be left alone, then we'll leave her alone," Bulma concedes sternly, rising from the armrest she'd propped herself on and walking away.

When she reaches the threshold, she stops and looks over her shoulder directly at me. "Chiru, what I will not tolerate is your behavior. We are all doing our part to accept you—even Vegeta in his own way—and your constant disrespect and ingratitude is not acceptable. How dare you judge me—judge _any_ of us—when we don't judge you? If you want to leave so badly, then leave."

She holds my gaze, unblinking, serious.

"You know that's not what I want," she continued. "But I will not suffer your bratty attitude in this house anymore. You can stay or you can go, but make your decision and be done with it."

And she leaves.

Goten and Trunks cast me awkward glances as they get up and follow her out. Not until I'm alone again do I realize I'm about to cry. Why am I reacting this way? She didn't hit me. She didn't lock me up and do away with me until I became interesting or necessary or useful again. She didn't take away my consciousness, my life, my very breath. If anything, she's given me a choice, and now I'm the one calling the shots. So why doesn't it feel that way? Why do I feel more trapped than ever?

Because she's right.

Beneath all my anger and pride, I know that, and I hate her for it. And I hate myself for it. And I don't know what to do about it.

So I lie back down and sulk.

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…I know what I want to do now.

…

…I just don't know how to do it.

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Evening rolls around. No one has spoken to me or even entered the room since the scene earlier, and I've been alone with my thoughts the entire time. I suppose I have what is called a guilty conscious about all this, though identifying the feeling doesn't really make what I have to do any easier.

I hear the clinking of plates and silverware in the next room, and the robust aroma of cooked meat taunts my nostrils, mouth, and stomach.

It's now or never, I decide, getting to my feet, carrying out what I hope is the right decision.

I quietly make my way to the door, taking a deep breath…

…and walk into the dining room.

Five pairs of eyes look up at me, and the conversation stops.

Vegeta looks away quickly with a "tch", resuming the task of piling assorted meats and gravies onto his plate. Bulma returns to her plate as well, and Trunks and Goten follow suit. Only Bra continues to stare at me, and I feel foolish and awkward just standing here. The child senses my discomfiture and swallowing her mouthful of food, grips the table to steady herself as she scoots her chair to the side, revealing the extra place setting prepared for one more person.

I keep my expression blank as I steal over to the chair and sit down, determined not to look at the others. Everyone carries on as if nothing has happened or is happening, but it's a strained effort at normality, for the conversation doesn't pick back up and the only sounds are of tableware clinking and mouths chewing.

I take no food for myself, too occupied with trying to find the solution to the practically impossible problem before me:

Sociability.

"Dinner looks…"

I struggle to find the right words.

"Delicious," I decide, realizing how pitiful my three-word assertion is and bracing myself for a counterattack.

"Would you like some pork?" Bulma asks, catching me off-guard with a sudden return of kindness.

"Um, yes," I reply warily.

"There's also rice, mashed potatoes, chicken, and caribou."

"And I made peas!" Bra announces.

"And Bra made peas," Bulma smiles, completing the list.

"That all sounds…"

Adjectives fail me.

"Delicious," I finish again lamely. My mouth has dried up, and I swear it's from the ash of this public crash and burn.

"Chicken are despicable creatures," Vegeta suddenly unleashes to the dinner table. "The most idiotic of all the bird species. They deserve to be wrung, plucked, chopped, and broiled for my dinner."

"Daddy, that's disgusting!" Bra cries, kicking the underside of the table hard enough that the plates on the surface jump. One of the hunks of juicy meat rolls over nicely from the force, its oil glistening under the ceiling lights.

"Disgusting?" I mumble, slightly salivating. "No…delicious is what it is. Can, uh, can someone pass some of that bird to me…please?"

"It finally shows some manners," sneers Vegeta as Goten hands me the platter of bird pieces with a wink. Bulma and Trunks try to hide their amused grins by pretending to take a sip from their glasses. Bra chants "disgusting, disgusting, disgusting" until Trunks flicks a pea at her, at which point she starts wailing again. Somehow she's become the unruly one in the room making everyone uncomfortable.

And despite how odd as it sounds, I feel relieved it isn't me.

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

Perhaps a little corny, but I feel like it had to happen. I was shooting for cute but realistic, so I hope that's how it comes across. I'm not trying to write a sappy story here, but I feel like Chiru should be an immature, socially inept character right now, what with her background. And I wanted to show how strong a woman Bulma can be, both as a maternal figure and as a head of the house along with Vegeta. And yeah, the girls dominated this chapter, but equal attention to all, right? Haha

As always, please leave a review and let me know what you think! I always love to hear what parts made readers laugh because I'd like to do more of those as the story goes. : )

P.S.

I saw the midnight showing of Wolverine tonight, and I was really impressed! Granted, I didn't expect many positive things from it (not after the disaster X-Men 3 proved to be), but I think the film did a good job, and I was definitely entertained. And if for no other reason, go and check out how awesome Ryan Reynolds is outside of his usual movie roles as Deadpool. Well, Deadpool's not so much outside his usual roles, really, because he's still snarky and assholish, but it's amplified, and he's insane, and best of all super bad ass. And HOT AS HELL to boot!

Ahem.

Anyway, I recommend the film.

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On to the Reviewer Responses:

aspideringossamerwebs: lol! I did hear you laughing that night, but I just figured you were laughing at an e-mail or something. I'm so glad it was actually chapter 6, instead! Raul just kind of happened, and maybe it wasn't all the politically correct, but…I'm having fun putting Chiru through the ringer. Lmao Thanks as always for your reviews! I will definitely keep the fun a'comin'. : )

Lord Sneeze: There was some shennaniganary in this chapter, but if you want true and hardcore shenanigans, tune in next week for…bum bum bummm…CHAPTER 8! lol


	8. Grossin' Out and Payin' Up

Disclaimer: DBZ is not mine. And the following is NOT based on an actual event or number of events…or are they? (o_O)

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The Conceit of a Happy Life

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Chapter 8

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Grossin' Out and Payin' Up

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After dinner everyone settles down in the family room to watch a movie. According to Bulma, it's a romantic comedy involving something called a "yakuza". I tentatively join them for this familial custom as well, though more out of an awkward sense of obligation than any genuine interest to see the film. And whether it's because the movie is dull or because I am just a bit drained by the strange calmness of the evening, I fall asleep during the movie. I wake up only once when Vegeta lets loose a particularly loud snore, earning himself two very loud shushes from both his wife and daughter.

When I blink awake some time later, the movie is over and the room noiseless. I begin to prop myself up on my elbow to look around, but I find my back stiff and sore. I sit up carefully and then try to stretch out the kinks, taking in my surroundings as I do.

I'm no longer in the larger family room, apparently waking up at some point and finding my way back to what I've come to think of as 'my couch'. I suppose the others have gone to bed as well, but then I hear muted laughter and shuffling and a couple of thumps coming from the kitchen. Rubbing at my sore back, I consider investigating the source of the sounds even though I've had as much social hassle for the night as I can stand. I finally decide to disregard it, lying down again and trying to sleep through the faint noise.

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…

My aching back is keeping me up.

And my curiosity isn't helping matters either.

…

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My restlessness and discomfort pay off. I am still awake when Trunks and Goten amble into the room, each with an amber-toned bottle in hand.

"Sshhh," Goten hisses loudly. "Girlsh don't like tuba woke up."

Ah. So that's it.

Trunks is stiff and stoic and in control as he takes a seat…but his legs turn to mush, and he promptly slides out of the chair to a slouching position on the floor, betraying the extent of his drunkenness. Which is considerable. Goten finds his slip-up riotous and doubles over with laughter, sloshing a bit of his drink onto the sofa cushion, mere inches from my face. Fumes from the liquid tickle my nostrils, the smell bitter and tangy.

…Mouth-watering, even…

"What is that?" I ask, my back wincing again as I rise slightly from my horizontal position.

"Yerwake!" Goten cries, absolutely astounded. He seems drunk enough at this point to find anything absolutely astounding.

"What is that?" I repeat, undeterred.

"S'beer," Goten grins, taking a swig.

Then he burps.

And then he grins again.

Cheeky monkey.

"Is it strong?" I ask.

"Drink 'nuff and is it," Trunks enunciates carefully.

"Erm…'it is'," he amends, catching his mistake a moment later. His efforts toward sobriety are laughably unimpressive.

But I'm still undeterred.

"Can I have some?"

"Huh?"

"Can. I. Have. Some. Of. That?" I point to their bottles for emphasis.

"Uh…"

"My back hurts," I explain tersely, trying to hurry along a 'yes' answer. "And that—" I point at the bottles again. "—will help with the pain."

And since my life has become a total wreck, drowning my anguish in booze sounds pretty damn appealing right now.

Trunks considers me for a second, taking a deep swig from his bottle.

"Y'wansome wine or someshin'? M'mom has—" He pauses to burp. "—a bunch of that," he finishes.

My back smarts even as I shake my head. It's hurting worse as my impatience grows.

"I want something strong," I insist.

"Well…mmkay," he says slowly, climbing unsteadily to his feet. He stands in place for a moment, shaking away his dizziness before continuing, "You c'n havea shotuh someshin' if you promish nodda get drunk. Parentsh probly be pissed ifyuh get drunk…"

I have no idea what he's saying, but I get up and follow him into the kitchen, Goten lumbering behind us chanting, "Shot! Shot! Shot—!" BURP "—an' get druuuuunk!"

Trunks opens up one of the taller cabinets, inside of which the family apparently keeps a generous assortment of bottles: some light, some dark, but all of them promising. Trunks looks over his shoulder, appraising me for a few seconds before saying, "Yer…kinda shmall. Maybeyave _little_ shot."

I don't know what this 'shot' business is, but I put my hands on my hips and glare up at him.

"I want the strongest you got," I challenge.

"Oooooo!" Goten goads, his fist to his mouth as he leans forward, clutching his knees with the other hand. He is becoming ridiculously more and more delighted by the turn of events.

Trunks shrugs and then floats up off the ground to reach the highest shelf—on the way bumping forcefully into the refrigerator and nearly knocking it over, also to Goten's amusement. When he accidentally knocks his head into the ceiling, Trunks stops and braces himself against the cabinet. He reaches to the back shelf, clinking the other containers out of his way and finally pulls out a large clear bottle. I glimpse a white '95%' printed on its face before the half-breed makes a graceless landing.

"Shglass," he mumbles, opening another cabinet and pulling out a small cup.

"Is that it?" I ask crossly.

"'sa shot," he returns, not quite answering my question.

"I want a bigger one," I demand firmly.

He scowls at me, but surprisingly obeys my order.

Apparently he's easy to manipulate when he's drunk. I make a note of it and smirk.

After he fetches me a more adequate-sized glass, he unscrews the cap on the bottle and pours in…a splash? No, there's barely enough to even make a splash!

"Don't hold back!" I snap angrily, staring him down.

"Soo-chyaself," he slurs back, shaking his head in irritation as he fills the cup to the brim.

I reach for the drink, but he grabs it away, spilling some with his clumsy forcefulness. He stares hard at me and says with great gravity, "You ashk, I pour, you drink…*hic*"

Most of what he's said tonight hasn't made a damn bit of sense, but now we're finally on the same page.

"Now you're talking," I smirk.

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Blurry. Evershing's kinda blurry.

"You guysh, I shink I should major'n phiroshophy. Yuhknow, 'I shink sharefor I am' nnshtuff. I *hic* really have shum deep thoughtshyike at, yuhno?"

Laughter.

"Like uh shun'a Goku'shgonna be shmart."

"Hey…Gohansshmart."

"Gohansh _fluke_."

"Shuddup, or I'll shudjoo…up."

"You two can't…hold your liquor tuh…save your lives."

"Whu? N'you can?"

"Ash…as a matter of fact…I can."

"Then whyshyer boob hangin ow?"

Snickers.

"Wha?" Neck forward. "No, it'sh…it's not! It's inside my shirt…they both are."

More snickers.

"Madejoo look. Heh heh."

"You're…a dick. Both-uh yooer dicksh…s."

"Why're yoo sho damn grumpy allsh time?"

"Mm not grumpy…I just don't like you…ashhole."

Yawns.

"Nn some ash…asshole you know…fuckin' took my revenge…It washen…wasn't his…It-uhs _mine_…Killin' that bashtard—my future…Now'mm fucked…'cause he took my future. Now I dun have no future. No more future for me!"

Snores.

"Fuckin' shtuh…stuck on this fockin' planet."

Dimming…

"Witsh you morons. Hate thish…thish shit. Fuckin'…"

…and blank.

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"Mooommyyyyy!"

Ughn.

"Mommy, the stairs smell like throw up!" the high voice keens again, wresting me from a dreamless sleep.

Kami above, if you exist, smite the source of that noise right now, oh please.

The body of the voice thumps down the stairs, and then:

"The kitchen, too, Mommyyyy! Hwaaaaa!" The piercing pitch howls even more loudly from the adjacent room.

"Bra, what are you talking abou—_oh, good Dende!_" comes another voice, followed by a gagging sound.

"Mommy, I think I'm gonna be sick!"

"Get to the bathroom, Bra! Now!"

Footsteps. Blubbering. Door slam. Another shriek.

"Uuuugh," groans a warm lump of something beside me. From the land of the dead to this waking hell, it appears I am not alone.

"TRUNKS!" Bulma screeches so shrilly my eyes water and my head lets loose a tremendous throb. When the hell did she get right above us like that? Is she a bat? But maybe the alcohol still slushing about my brain is making me stupid.

"Uuuuugh," Trunks repeats, shrinking from the noise and covering his head with the nearest of the couch cushions strewn across the floor.

"UP! NOW!" his mother bellows, snatching the pillow from him and smacking him with it. "You and your friends thought you'd have some fun, huh? Drink your parents' booze and party it up in their house? BAD DECISION, young man! VERY bad decision!"

She swats him again with the cushion, catching the side of the stirring Goten's head in the wake of her swing. "Guh," he grunts insensibly, blinking bleary eyes.

"Get to your feet right now and clean up the mess you've made. If you're not done by lunch, I'll hang each of you by your happy sacks," she threatens.

"Happy huh?" I mumble confusedly.

"Oh, right, you don't have one," Bulma snaps. "In that case, Chiru, I'll just let Vegeta beat the living crap out of you agai—"

"Actually, no!" she exclaims, her rant taking a swift turn. "No, I'll let Vegeta beat the crap out of _all_ of you. _Yes!_"

"Muuuh," Trunks groans in protest…or stomach ache. If he feels anywhere near as bad as I do, it's both.

"Unless the three of you get to your feet _right now_ and clean up _everything_ you or your insides have touched since last night, then Vegeta will be your punishment," she promises ominously before stalking out of the room to check on Bra.

"Fucking Vegeta," I mumble into the floor, not wanting to get up.

"Dad's worse'n a drill sergeant," Trunks mutters, approaching coherency.

"Ung?" I question in a lapse of verbal facility.

"Fu…sion…ha!" Goten adds with a snore, having fallen back asleep.

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It takes us the entire morning to disinfect all the rooms (eight) and pieces of furniture (fourteen) we polluted in our apparently extensive revelry the night before. I don't know how we didn't wake anyone up because we must have gallivanted all through the house: we keep finding empty bottles and pizza crusts all over the place. I'm not sure when we made pizza, but Trunks guesses one of us ordered delivery at some point (even though—strangely—we find no pizza boxes anywhere in the house). Basically, none of us remembers too much of what happened last night—particularly who it was that barfed all up and down the side of one of the drapes—and the sheer amount of vomit is in itself a mystery. We couldn't possibly have produced that much, not without killing ourselves in the process.

The last thing I can recall clearly is Trunks handing me half a cup of something called whiskey to chase down the last of the infamous '95%', which, as I discovered last night, was far too much alcohol for my body to stand, even with my exceedingly efficient alien metabolism. But the deal was that I had to drink whatever Trunks put in front of me, and like hell was I going to back down from that. He told me to say 'hit me' whenever I wanted a shot, and judging by the utter devastation of the house's hygiene, I'm pretty sure I said those two words many, _many_ times last night. Trunks and Goten continued drinking right along with me, too, so they know as little I do, if not less. The next thing any of us knew we were waking up on the family room floor as Bra's and Bulma's eardrum-shattering screams ricocheted through the house.

Bulma's wrath is still tremendous when she returns that afternoon, but we luck out later that evening when Vegeta accidentally lets slip to his wife that he already knew of our nocturnal escapades. Apparently he found the effects early this morning before going out to train, but carefully neglected to deal with the issue first himself—or even to warn his wife, for that matter. Bulma, upon discovering this, hits quite possibly the highest octave I have ever heard a biological creature shriek as she castigates her "selfish, useless, training-obsessed jerk of a husband". The human female thusly refuses to cook dinner for any of us and tears all the phones from the walls and hides them before taking Bra out to a restaurant, leaving the rest of us behind to scavenge.

"That damn woman!" Vegeta roars as Bulma's car peels out of the driveway, its screeching intensity almost rivaling her screeching shrieks.

"Quick! Let's go after her!" Goten cries, balling his fists.

"No!" the Saiyan refuses.

So the half-breed asserts a different tactic: "Then let's go to Arby's!"

"Fool!" Vegeta barks, swatting Goten out of his way as he stalks to the window, brows furrowed in strategic deliberation. "Eating out will only indulge her ego—it's what she wants—and following her would but further incite her rage!"

"Do you suggest we cook then?" Trunks shouts, denouncing the notion with a scornful wave of his hand.

"No," the Saiyan snarls to his son, baring his teeth contemptuously. "We will not give her that satisfaction either."

"Then what the hell are we going to do?" I demand, crossing my arms and glaring.

To me he shows no sign of acknowledgment. He answers my question, but addresses the group.

"We will go to the 7-Eleven," he announces gravely.

Trunks, Goten, and I look at each other, considering this option. The guys nod to one another, consenting to the plan. I don't know what the rationale behind this plan of action is, or why a 7-Eleven is different from an Arby's, but it seems an acceptable alternative to the guys, so I nod my approval as well.

"Then let's go," Vegeta rumbles darkly, grabbing his jacket and striding through the hall to the front door.

Goten dons his coat, and Trunks passes me a faded blue Capsule Corp jacket before pulling on his own.

As we turn to follow Vegeta, the Saiyan, already at the door now, stops. Popping his collar, he glares over his shoulder at us and barks, "And bring your wallets! Your punishment begins now!"

"What—? We already had our punishment!" Trunks argues.

"Yeah! We cleaned up everything!" Goten puts in vehemently. "It took hours."

"Silence!" Vegeta bellows. "That was Bulma's punishment for you! _Mine_ is separate: you delinquents shall pay for my dinner! Now open your ears! I will require five katsudon, two omurisu, ten onigiri, six sandwiches, a bowl of oden, three niku-man and three kare-man—if they don't have enough in the oven already, then you will make them heat up more—a bag of potato chips, a cold coffee, and a jelly cup!"

Order finished, he kicks the door open and takes off into the skies in a blue steak of lightning.

"That's like a million yen!" Goten yells after him.

"Shut up, man—it's not like I'm not loaded," Trunks grumbles, thumbing through sheets of crisp paper in his wallet. Then with a smooth swipe of his hand, he replaces the wallet in his back pocket and looks us each in the eye.

"Let's do this," he says fiercely, and in the next instant he's tearing down the hall and out the front door.

"All right!" Goten smirks, jetting off after him.

I waste no time dashing after, and despite the revolting start to the day, I have to say I feel pretty damn invigorated right now.

And on top of that the pain in my back is long gone.

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

Hold on a tick! This is my longest chapter thus far! Huzzah! Which is odd because I started writing a completely different chapter 8 (which is now chapter 9) when I decided I needed a little something else in between. And thus this little scenario took form!

This one wasn't necessarily easy to write, but it was definitely pretty freakin' fun. If anyone needs me to de-slur anything drunk!Trunks said (aw, I should have used a drunk!Trunks joke in the chapter somewhere, but that probably would have been too easy, and I just missed it because, well, I'm not awesomesauce enough), drop me a line (preferably a review! *wink*), and I will add a translation. lol

As always, my best to you all!

Niach

P.S.

I personally love how mock-serious things got at the end. Vegeta's warrior melodrama had me laughing the entire time I wrote it out. XD

P.P.S.

Just in case anyone is wondering, I do not plan on adding any cliché (at least to my mind) plot twist that any of the three slept together while drunk. Everyone kept his/her clothes on. Except when they may or may not have urinated on potted plants. That includes Chiru, too. She probably would piss on a house plant, come to think of it…

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Reader response:

SL19:Thank you so much for the review! I see what you mean about needing more development about what Chiru is thinking. I have this weird thing about creating characters who don't explicitly share their thoughts with the reader, I think because I in part envision the character (not just me) telling his/her story, and I feel like Chiru would want to keep certain information from the reader. Specifically information that she knows/thinks makes her look like she's the one at fault. Lol That's my reasoning behind the lack of info in the last chapter, which doesn't mean that your point is wrong—it just means that what I was trying to do perhaps wasn't as effective as it needed to be. Thanks for pointing it out, though! That's the kind of thing I need to be aware of as a writer, so I can work on it and improve! : )

aspideringossamerwebs:Thanks for the review, Miss Nightwish Rocker! (Checked out their website last night, by the way—their band member info pages amused me greatly!) I'm glad you're enjoying Vegeta because I'm definitely enjoying writing him. : ) And the caribou thing made me laugh, too, because hell, caribou seems a legitimate enough food item for DBZ characters to be eating like it's no big thing. I bet Vegeta even slaughtered it himself! XD Which is kind of gross, but whatever…


	9. Digesting

Disclaimer: Love it. Don't own it. Damn it.

*****

*****

The Conceit of a Happy Life

Chapter 9

Digesting

*****

*****

After the whirlwind of that drunken night and the day spent making up for it, something of a routine begins to set in. I spend the bulk of my waking hours watching the construction-laboring locals that have arrived to repair Trunks's wall, as I am oddly fascinated by the process and the idea that people on this planet work for pay rather than for their survival alone. If any of my father's underlings had dared ask for compensation for their services, I'm sure he would have laughed at them. And soon afterward would have killed them. (And had they dared been as unreliable and idle as these human construction workers, he would have tortured them first and then killed them.)

In response to my slew of questions about these and other human activities, Bulma explains to me that this society operates by a capitalist system as opposed to what she calls the "fascist rule" my father held. People here work to be independent and to stand on their own two feet, she says, and she offers me books, magazines, and newspapers, encouraging me to go forth and learn about this "capitalism" thing, to try to piece together how the majority of this world works. Her enthusiasm for knowledge is also strange to me. During the intervals my father freed me from that suffocating meat locker and permitted me consciousness, he'd had high-ranking warriors train me and warfare strategists instruct me, but he never provided any other education aside from this. From arrogance or fear, I do not know. But the independence Bulma talks about sounds much like my desire to separate myself from my father. It's an idea I can relate to.

When I am not reading or human-watching, Trunks, Goten and sometimes Bra amuse me in my leisurely hours, including me in their activities when I wish it and letting me casually observe when I want to sit out. Bulma and I are working past our earlier conflict with one another and establishing something of a rapport, and I see now that it's better to have her for a friend than for a foe. It certainly cuts down on the shrill yelling, anyway. Vegeta and I, on the other hand, keep our distance from each other, except around the dinner table where we wordlessly vie with one another to see who can consume the most food. Until I am well enough to start training again, this is my only means of putting that bastard in his place, and his training and my recovery make us two very ravenous contenders.

Days pass, and things become less awkward. I feel less awkward. Things even start to feel…smooth.

One morning I sleep in late after a rowdy night of Trunks and Goten playing foosball in the basement. I locate some breakfast and sit down with a few bananas, some hardboiled eggs, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a gallon of orange juice. Some days ago I tried to forego all food until the evening meal, starving myself in an attempt to overwhelm Vegeta during our contest, but this maneuver proved useless. I was miserable the entire day and made myself sick after gorging on a horrendous human concoction of meat and pineapple. Thinking I was beating Vegeta to the punch, I ate the entire dish. It was only when I soon after hacked and hurled up every bit of that vile food that I realized I hadn't gotten to it first because I was quicker—I got to it first because Vegeta wouldn't touch it, and I was hungry enough to think it looked digestible.

I'm cracking my fourth egg when it occurs to me that it's pretty quiet around here for the late morning hour that it is. I finish my egg, and, taking the peanut butter with me, go off in search of the unusually silent life forms residing here. I check all the bedrooms and the basement, but come up with nothing. Trunks's stuff appears to be missing, and Goten's surprising amount of clutter around the house is absent as well.

Finally, I wander down to Bulma's office and knock on the door with my peanut-butter-free hand.

"Just a moment please," I hear her say to someone before calling out, "Yes? Come in."

I open the door and walk in to find her sitting at her desk. She's dressed formally and has a composed yet disgruntled look about her. It's the look I've seen her get when she's giving an order with which I don't want to comply. A table-full of people in business suits appears upon a large screen in front of her, a kind of communication device. At the head of that table is an older man with a moustache and a smirk on his face, both of which I immediately find repellant. And judging from Bulma's apparent frustration, I'm pretty sure she doesn't find the guy good company either.

"Good morning, Chiru. Or 'good afternoon' rather," Bulma greets me. "I'm having a conference call right now, so if you could—"

"I just have a question," I interrupt, ignoring the presence of the screen people. "Where'd everybody go?"

Bulma tries to keep her cool in front of her business associates on the other end of the line and answers calmly, "Vegeta's training, Bra's at school, and the boys are back at college."

"College?" I ask as I insert a peanut butter laden finger into my mouth. "What's that?"

Bulma's eyebrow twitches. "An institution of higher learning," she manages to say evenly. "They went back this morning to finish up their spring semesters."

She flashes an apologetic smile at the people on the screen—the moustache guy snickers—and is about to wrap up the conversation with me.

"Why did no one tell me this?" I ask around the wad of peanutty gunk in my mouth.

The further inquiry and my continued disregard of the conference trigger another, larger, eyebrow twitch, and she snaps, "We talked about it last night at dinner. Weren't you paying attention?"

I think back and have to admit that I wasn't—Vegeta had downed three hot bowls of ramen to my one, and I had been struggling to keep up despite my scalded tongue and the stinging whiplash effected by my hurried slurping of the noodles. Whatever conversation took place, I hadn't heard a word of it.

"When will they be back?" I continue, opting not to answer her question for the sake of my dignity.

Bulma sighs and puts a hand to her forehead, a gesture I am quickly learning means she's about to hit the roof. "On their next break. Chiru, I really need to focus on this call right now."

"When's—"

"Later," she hisses at me with a glare, and I cut my losses and step out.

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When Bulma finishes her conference call a couple hours later, she tracks me down in the family room where I'm sprawled across the couch, not doing a damn thing but scraping the last of the peanut butter out of the jar.

"You can't just interrupt whenever you want, you know," she says, sinking down into the chair across from me. "And clean up after yourself when you're done eating. You left a huge mess in the kitchen."

I decline to acknowledge this.

"When's their next break?" I ask, resuming our earlier exchange.

"I don't know," she sighs. "In a few weeks or so. I think Goten's school might finish before Trunks's."

I mull over this information without remark, but as Bulma begins to drift off into a nap, I ask her, "What about Bra?"

Bulma blinks sleepily and says around a yawn, "She's at school, too. But I pick her up at four."

She glances at her watch. "Which isn't too long from now," she adds, getting to her feet, her back popping slightly from the effort.

"To be honest," she groans, stretching off the nap she almost had, "I can't wait until Trunks takes over the company. I'm tired of handling all the Capsule Corp business crap—I just want to play around and invent things like I used to. Do you know what that business tycoon prick said to me after you left? Said I can't even handle a foster child. That jerk's conceited head is so far up his dumb ass he thinks he can buy out my family's company, and even _he_ sees I'm at the end of my wits here."

"What do you mean 'foster child?'"

"I had to give them some kind of explanation," Bulma says, waving my question aside. "I mean, you came in, looking the way you do—don't get me wrong, you're looking better, but still—they had to have thought you were homeless or we beat the living daylights out of you or something, so I just told them you were an abused little charity case girl we took in as a tax write-off. They totally bought it, which isn't surprising, considering all those unfeeling bastards understand is tax write-offs."

I don't know what a tax write-off is, but the assumptions those people would have made, along with the lie she told them, don't sound all that far from the truth to me.

"So it's just Bra?" I ask, changing the subject to keep her venting from escalating into yelling.

"What? Oh. Yes. Yes, it's just Bra and me and Vegeta," she sighs. "And you. It'll just be the four of us for a while."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her expression shift as an idea occurs to her. I know her well enough by now to know this is bad.

"You know," she begins, and the honeyed tone of her voice confirms my apprehension, "it might be kind of dull around here without the guys…"

I grunt, unconcerned, sticking my tongue to the peanut butter on my finger while examining the jar's nutrition label as if it's ten times more interesting than this conversation. Which it is, for the record. Whether or not Trunks and Goten are here is of no significance to me.

"I don't want you to get lonely or bored while they're gone. It would make me worry. I could help you find something to do to pass the time, if you want…"

I grunt again, indicating nothing. Why is she making their absence a bigger deal than it is? Do I look like I give a rat's ass about those idiots' coming and going? If anything, it's a relief. Like taking a much needed dump.

"Maybe you could do something sociological? Get to know earth better?"

I don't say anything, preferring to enjoy my human treat as it melts in my mouth.

"Or just take up a hobby or something…anything," Bulma sighs. She's been sighing a lot today. As she walks out into the front hall to retrieve her purse from the closet, I can tell she has some final thing she wants to say.

Yes, here it comes—she's standing in the doorway with one of those looks on her face. She's going to try to level with me.

"I've got a lot on my plate right now, Chiru, and woman to woman, I can't handle any more stress. My entire family depends on me, and I can't depend on them: Vegeta's only mission in life is to train and get stronger, Trunks is focusing on his third year of college, and Bra is still a little girl—who I'm already late picking up. Kami…" She briefly puts her head in her hands and shakes it a little in an effort to knock the aggravating thoughts out of her head. But when she turns back to me, I can tell they're still bothering her. "Look, I need to go, but really, think about what I said. It would really help me out a lot if I knew you were doing something and keeping busy."

And with that she departs from the house, leaving me to digest her words…and the peanut butter.

*****

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I don't care about any of this. I really don't.

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Bulma's given me another choice: do something or do nothing. She wants me to do something, then fine, I'll do something. I've been bored for the past days, weeks, however long it's been, anyway. I'm ecstatic to have some time to do what I want, some actual freedom.

I race through the air, already out of sight of the Capsule Corporation. I'm glad to get out of there, glad to have Bulma off my case and Vegeta at a considerable distance and glad not to have to hear Bra whine about dumb stuff all the time. And I'm definitely glad not to have Trunks and Goten bothering me about shit all the time. Yeah, I'm definitely satisfied to get away from all of them.

I swiftly descend into the city and see that, yes, this is the place… With the power of choice back in my court where it belongs, this is where the real entertainment begins.

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

Sorry about the big delay in chapter update. Papers, tests, a presentation, and a final, along with the craziness of Senior Week and college graduation took out a huge chunk of my fanfic-writing-and-maintenance time. Hell, we'll throw in a minor bout of depression as well. So I had to put the fanfic on hold for a bit, but now I'm back, and I plan to pick back up and go just as strongly as I was pre-papers-tests-presentation-final-Senior-Week-and-college-graduation-moving-out-of-my-dorm-etc.

A couple bits of interesting info, though! SL19 was really awesome and drew and _colored_ a picture of Chiru! Hell, I haven't even colored her yet and have no plans to because I get bored and thus distracted too quickly, if I even feel inspired to color in the first place. Anyway, here is a link to SL19's uber-cool picture: .com/art/Chiru-121933552 and from there you can peruse her awesome deviantART account (she's incredibly productive! : ) )

Also, for those who are interested, I'm not much of an artist myself (see again with the aversion to coloring mentioned above), but I do enjoy doodling. If you'd like to see my conception of Chiru, here is a cute chibi version I did a couple of weeks ago: .com/art/Cutey-Patooty-Chiru-122400930

And here's one of her competing with Vegeta at the dinner table. It amuses me. XD .com/art/Ravenous-Chiru-122396990

**EDIT:**

Apparently is not cool with letting me post links in the chapter, so, uh...please try finding shadowlover19 and Amaniachwen at deviantART, or google them or whatever. The title of SL19's picture is "Chiru," and the titles of the two I tried to post are "Cutey Patooty Chiru" and "Ravenous Chiru." I'm sorry for the inconvenience. If anyone has advice on how to fix this problem, please let me know. In layman's terms. Like, so-easy-a-monkey-could-do-it terms. Because figuring out computer stuff is not my strong suit. ( ^.^'')

And now for my comments about this chapter, which I wrote just after writing it, which was weeks ago (yeah, I wrote the chapter a longish time ago, but it took me a while to edit it…sorry… (x) ).

Cute flashback to about a, er, month ago…

"Yeesh, I keep changing my mind about which way I want this story to go. Whatever I do, I want it to be interesting, so if you guys have any suggestions about what kinds of things you'd like to see happen, that would be cool. I have a pretty good idea of how I will develop the quieter plot line (the relationships between the characters and so forth), but as for a larger plot outside this…I'm not sure. Is it enough for this fanfic to be a laidback series of events and such, or does something else need to be going on? I think something else needs to go on. I'm not sure what yet, but I'll be working on it, and as I said, your suggestions and thoughts are very much welcome!

"Also, just because I think it's important to bring up, capitalism, to me, does not necessarily equal freedom. Having a job is great, but doesn't necessarily make a person entirely independent—he/she is still depending on things greater than himself/herself. Things such as the employers' decisions, the company's needs and whims, and even the state of the economy as a whole. But as Bulma, who is very privileged and wealthy and greatly benefits from the capitalist system, explains it to Chiru, capitalism comes across as an ideal. That's what I imagine coming from her, anyway. Just thought I would mention that. Lol"

End flashback to a, heh heh, er, um, month ago.

Anyway, happy spring to all, and please and thank you for a review! (Please?) : )

Best,

Niach


	10. Cracking

Disclaimer: Flatter me for a second: believe DBZ and all its awesomeness belong to me. … Man, was that as amazing for you as it was for me? *sigh* Well, back to reality…

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The Conceit of a Happy Life

Chapter 10

Cracking

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"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!?"

Good God, I think my eardrums just shattered.

"This isn't my fault!"

"Not your fault? That man was innocent! Who the hell's fault do you think this is?"

_If she wants to put it that way…_

"It's your fault!"

"MINE?!?"

Wait, no, _now_ my eardrums have shattered.

"What the hell is wrong with you?! Did you suffer some kind of concussion when you crashed, or were you just born with half a brain?"

"You wanted me to do something, I was going to do something. I was trying to fucking do what you told me, so you'd quit bitching and moaning all the time, but that putrid moronic human jackass piece of shit interfered. If he'd just kept his foul mouth shut, there wouldn't even have been a problem."

But, as it stands, there is a problem. According to everyone else, it's a pretty big problem, too. Apparently, these humans view demolishing an entire 7-Eleven as a suspect act punishable by law and armed forces. And I suppose I can't blame them for that since I did a damn good job razing that miserable fucking shop to the ground.

"I don't care if he was a jackass or not! You can't go around destroying stuff and hurting people, Chi—" She nearly says my name but stops—maybe because of the uniformed Earth creatures watching us from the other side of the room. "Violence like that is _not_ okay here. It is _never_ okay here!"

"I didn't hurt _them!_" I growl in my defense, jabbing my finger at the others in the room.

Bulma counters by putting an authoritative index finger in my face, which she'd better withdraw quick because I am pissed enough to bite, shred, and all-around maul anything that comes near me right now.

"And I'm thrilled you didn't hurt them, but, you—you…" Her pointer finger flags, and she chokes on the words. "To that poor man?"

"'Poor man?' Don't sympathize with that yellow-toothed mongrel. I saw the sign in the window said 'Help Wanted' the last time I was there, and I thought getting a job would shut you up. But that bastard refused to hire me!" I growl.

"That doesn't make you the saint you wrongly think yourself to be in this," Bulma snaps. "He was the store manager, and as such he had the right to hire or not hire whomever he wanted. It was not your decision. Oh, Kami, that poor man—"

"Stop calling him 'poor man!' That piece of shit tried to prostitute me!" I shout, so furious I'm shaking. That wretched wart of a being... I don't care what Bulma says about it now—I was pissed off to start with, and that human bastard said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Nothing justifies what he did. Telling me he wouldn't take me on as a cashier, but he'd be more than happy to take me on as a whore? Stress, frustration and rage were roiling inside me, and the hateful glint in his eye and the depraved smirk on his face were the breaking point—I exploded. I was on him in a flash, slamming my knuckles into his face and body again and again and again. My body on fire, my brain numb. No thoughts. Just violence.

And it made me feel alive. That damned murderous Saiyan bloodlust broke through, and I reveled in the feel of my fists pulverizing his flesh. Hands tried to tear me from him, but I batted them away and threw ki attacks until they scattered and fled. I didn't hear and acknowledge the humans' screaming at this time so much as I worshiped to it through the sacrosanct practice of violence, thrashing that jackass to the resounding chorus of their terror. And for a few glorious seconds, it was beautiful. Mindlessly beautiful.

But the sirens broke through all too soon, and then the humans' horror reached my consciousness. Suddenly weak human bullets were zooming past me and the idiot know-nothing within my grasp. Metallic pellets grazed my shoulders and torso, inconsequential to me, but one caught the human in the side of the head. He was dead in an instant, and that was when I knew I'd fucked up. It was time to go.

The store did not stand very long after that. Emerging from the fit of aggression into a scene of mayhem and confusion, I fought to think clearly, but the crisis was immediate. I merely reacted, shooting out flares of ki haphazardly as I tried to get out. But in my destructive escape I got caught when the wall caved in and a beam slammed into me and pinned me to the ground as the rest of the structure collapsed. When I came to after that, the humans in uniform were digging me out, yelling at me, asking me questions, clenching my fists together behind my back with their metal shackles.

They brought me here—to their headquarters as far as I can tell—and continued to aggravate me with more questions about my identity, motives, contacts. When I gave them no response, they began asking about the apparently custom-made Capsule Corp jacket I was wearing. What were my connections with Capsule Corp? Was this a Capsule Corp-related act of terror? I didn't answer these questions either, but they sent for Bulma anyway, and she came immediately. Which more or less answered their question about whether or not I have a connection with the corporation.

And because she's absolutely relentless when she's pissed, they allowed her to see me; and because I start talking when she shows up, they've allowed her to stay.

I probably should have kept my mouth shut.

"A man died because of you," Bulma whispers. She's looking at me with pleading eyes, but hell if I know what she wants.

"I'm not the one who shot him," I say evenly.

Bulma shakes her head. "No, that's not the point. The point is that if you had controlled yourself—"

She doesn't make it very far into that sentence before I interrupt with an infuriated roar. "Are you trying to be my god damn moral compass or something?" I bellow. "Stop acting so high and mighty! You weren't there! You don't know anything!"

Bulma remains calm through my tirade, but her eyebrow is twitching so strongly it may rocket right off her forehead. "No, I wasn't there, and I don't know all the details. But I've gathered enough of what happened from what the police have told me and by your attitude and behavior right now. If you hadn't let your temper get the better of you, the situation wouldn't have escalated as it did, and that man wouldn't have been killed in the crossfire. This is your fault. Now quit arguing and own up to it."

My lip curls dangerously.

"Get. Me. Out of here," I hiss.

"No."

I snarl threateningly, wrenching against the chair to which the humans have bound my hands. The flimsy metal of the chair's back bends easily, becoming supple under my strength. I could snap it in two right now if I wanted.

"_No_," Bulma repeats, unfazed and arms crossed. "This is more complicated that you realize. You've dragged my family and my company into this, and now I have to fix it. And to do that, you are going to listen to me and do as I say."

"Like hell," I spit.

Her anger until this point has had her pacing around the room like some predatory cat, but now her heels clack across the room as she marches back over to me, my eyes following her with vicious avidity. The distraction of Trunks and Goten's presence, for all the good it did, only served as a temporary solution to the ongoing friction between the human female and me. My spinelessness and obedience these past weeks, I don't know why I stooped to it, why I resigned myself to fucking pacifism. Full-on confrontation is the only way I have ever known to reach a resolution, and I'm all too happy it's come to this. My steel glare bores into her eyes as I prepare for her to strike me across the face for being insolent and unruly, for making her life worse off. And when she's had the satisfaction of finally slapping me—then it will be my turn.

…but she doesn't touch me.

Instead, she kneels down, gripping the chair's armrests as if to hold me in place, and firmly meets my glare. Her eyes seem bluer than usual with her emotional intensity.

"I understand what you're going through," she says softly, and I wrench against her and her handful of words. She holds on tightly, wincing as her knees strike the floor and chair legs, and manages to remain upright. "You can believe me or not, but I do. I understand," she repeats. "I've dealt with it before, and I can help you."

My anger is cut by a trace of confusion, and I momentarily stop resisting. Her eyes, though tearing slightly from her physical pain, still do not waver. I don't think she's lying, but what does she mean?

"You feel hurt, and you feel lost. But don't show it because you think you have to be so strong all the time, and you won't let anyone in—you don't know _how_ to let them in—and that leaves you feeling very alone."

Where the hell is all this crap spewing from?

"I'm sorry for your all your hardships and your suffering, past and present, but you have to try to move on. I'll help you. We'll all help you."

She has no idea. She's just making some big dramatic speech because she likes to hear herself talk…

"Life is hard, Chiru," she whispers, low enough so the watching humans—surely just as nauseated as I am by all this—can't hear. "Don't make it harder than it needs to be."

That's it, no more. I look away from her, blinking furiously and tasting salt. I'm done.

*****

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"That was my favorite 7-Eleven," Vegeta growls when Bulma and I finally enter the lobby after hours of negotiating a deal with the armed human force.

Feeling more than done with words for the day, I don't bother to acknowledge him. I need distance from everyone and everything right now, and it's becoming increasingly clear that I'm not going to get that as long as I'm on this god damn planet.

"And you. Took you a while," he sneers to his wife.

Bulma walks past him, managing to hide her slight limp so he won't notice. As we exit the building he gruffly inquires what the situation is with the uniformed humans.

"We worked out a deal," Bulma replies tersely.

Vegeta snorts derisively at this. "What a spineless enforcement to capitulate so easily to a single woman's will."

That's the most affectionate thing I've ever heard him say. I may ralph.

"Well, what did you expect?" Bulma says with a flip of her short hair. "It wasn't easy, of course, but I got through to them in the end."

"You paid them off?" he smirks.

"_No_," Bulma counters haughtily. "Not in so many words, anyway. I simply bought us some time. They're still pissed and want to detain her—if not outright execute her for being such a danger—but we managed to come to an understanding."

"And what understanding is that?" Vegeta asks as Bulma roots through her purse for a car capsule.

"The understanding that they wait forty-eight hours before pressing charges," she replies, locating the shell and tossing it to the ground some feet away.

"Forty-eight hours?" Vegeta repeats, becoming noticeably irritated by all the questions his wife is forcing him to ask with her direct yet bare-minimum answers.

"Yes," she confirms as she opens the car door and slides into the driver's seat. "That's how long you two have to work with."

"Who two?" Vegeta asks.

"You and her," Bulma pronounces, pointing to each of us in turn for added emphasis.

"And just what is it you think I'm going to do, woman?" Vegeta snarls, bristling as he realizes the female already has a plan in mind for him.

"Find the Dragon Balls, so we can wish this problem never happened," Bulma says impatiently. "Now get in the car. We don't have much time."

"I am _not_ getting in that car!" her husband yells defiantly. "Ordering the Prince of All Saiyans around like some sort of servant at your beck and call—who do you think you are, woman?"

"Your wife," she snaps. "_Now get in the car._"

The Saiyan lets loose a roar of vexation before throwing me a scathing look—like I have any clue what's going on, much less care at all at this point—and then climbs into the car, slamming his door shut so hard the entire vehicle shakes from the force.

"Vegeta, if you break another car with one of your tantrums, I swear to Dende I'll murder you in your sleep and pitch your carcass to the wolves," she growls, starting the engine.

"Who died and made you Chichi," he grumbles under his breath, and Bulma's stern gaze gives way slightly as the corners of her lips curl upward in a half-amused grin in spite of herself and the hellish situation at hand.

And against my better judgment and exacerbated hatred of the woman, I can't help but to feel some admiration.

*****

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To Be Continued…

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A/N:

Yes! Here is some plot developing! A mini-adventure of sorts that will feed in to something larger later! Huzzah! Oh, and Chiru will learn the value of life or something. Gotta have a moral in there somewhere, I guess. ; )

I updated a day early (Thursday instead of Friday) because I started my summer job on Tuesday, but had today off because the woman I am assisting is out of town, but I have work tomorrow, so since I have free time now…yeah. So blah blah blah, real life stuff has caused me to rearrange my update schedule for this week, so here's a shiny new chapter for you guys a full day early. I know you were just on the edge of your seat for it, right? Yeah, sure. Lol I've been on the edge of my seat, though, waiting a proper amount of time and letting tension and suspense and all that build (hopefully) before delivering the next hair-raising chapter. Well, maybe it's not really hair-raising, but whatever. I'm just trying to entertain myself and anyone kind enough to take the time to read my work. So muchas gracias for reading, and pretty please leave a review! Feedback is ever welcome. : )

Best,

Niach

P.S.

Also, I added this to the end of chapter nine, but I'll repeat it again just in case those who read Ch. 9 before the edit missed it--

**EDIT:**

Apparently FFnet is not cool with letting me post links in the chapter, so, uh...please try finding shadowlover19 and Amaniachwen at deviantART, or google us or whatever. The title of SL19's picture is "Chiru," and the titles of the two I tried to post are "Cutey Patooty Chiru" and "Ravenous Chiru." I'm sorry for the inconvenience. If anyone has advice on how to fix this problem, please let me know. In layman's terms. Like, so-easy-a-monkey-could-do-it terms. Because figuring out computer stuff is not my strong suit, and I don't know the extent of FFnet's rules. ( ^.^'')

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Reader Responses:

First of all, though, I'm really sorry I didn't respond to the very kind reviews left for chapter 8! I was in such a hurry to post chapter 9 that I forgot to take the time to do them. But I'm still making a point to reply to you, for you guys are awesome enough to leave reviews, and it really means a lot to me that you do. : )

aspideringossamerwebs: So much for things being "normal" at the Vegeta household. Damn plot, interfering with peaceful ease and fun. Kind of like a boring, time-consuming summer job that cuts in on awesome fun time. … I've just made myself disgruntled again. ( - . - ) Grar. Lol

SL19: This chapter probably wasn't what you were expecting, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. The next chapter is going to be…fun. At least, it was fun for _me_ while writing it, and it's a fun chapter for Vegeta, but for Chiru…not so much maybe. *snurk*

Chaotic Symphony: Thank you so much! I'm so happy you found my fanfic and are sticking with it! At least I'm assuming you're sticking with it if you check out this chapter and read this review response. Lol I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well, and come back next week for chapter 11. : )

melakem: Thank you so much for all your reviews! To respond to your earlier question about Saiyan tails, my understanding/assumption is that a being with Saiyan heritage will be born with a monkey tail. Once that tail is lost, though, it cannot grow back. Gohan is half-Saiyan/half-human, but he had a tail as a child before Piccolo removed it (he just popped it right off at the base—it was hysterical!). Trunks and Bra, I assume, were born with tails as well, but I'm guessing Bulma had them taken off for safety concerns and human aesthetic issues. Vegeta probably did not approve, but then again, perhaps he did out of remorse for his own lost tail (I imagine seeing his children's tails on a regular basis would bring back painful memories). Anyway, Chiru was born with a Saiyan tail, but Frieza amputated it because of the threat it posed (Saiyans can't turn into Oozaru without their tails). So I hope that answers your question! Thanks again for reading and reviewing! ; )


	11. Going Crazy, Losing Poise

Disclaimer: Yeah, so, I kind of technically own this fanfic, but I only own one of its characters and none of the background stories of all the other characters. So in a way, I don't even really own this fanfic. Sort of, if that makes sense. But it probably doesn't all that much in the logical way of thinking of things, so if that's going to be the case, then I'll just assert with a heap of confidence that yes, I own this fanfic, and just get the hell on with the chapter.

The Conceit of a Happy Life

Chapter 11

Going Crazy, Losing Poise

"I still don't see why I have to go," Vegeta grouses as Bulma busies around gathering the supplies we'll need. "You're so proud of how fast you can find the damn Balls—why don't _you _go?"

"Because," his wife snaps, "this is something Chiru has to do. She caused this problem, and she's going to fix it."

"And what is it you think _I_ have to do with any of this?" he growls back.

"_You_, Mr. High and Mighty, have to go because _she_"—she jabs a finger in my direction—"obviously can't control herself. So you're going to make sure she doesn't do anything she shouldn't. You know, like kill someone again."

"_I AM NOT A BABYSITTER!_" he roars, slamming his fists down on the counter, leaving two huge dints.

"Oh, for Dende's sake—" Bulma rolls her eyes in exasperation. "Look, our family is in deep shit right now. If we don't make things right, the reputation of Capsule Corp will be at stake. Whether people think Chiru's an alien, android, human or whatever, it doesn't change what she did. People are not going to want to invest in or support a company connected to a killer—not in this age of peace. If we're going to get out of this unscathed, we need those Dragon Balls, and we need them six hours ago. Otherwise, you can kiss your rich and pampered lifestyle goodbye, _Prince_ _of all Saiyans_."

Vegeta's eyes have narrowed dangerously as his own anger subsides enough for him to absorb his wife's assessment of the situation. He turns that deadly glare on me, and I register the hatred he has for me, which, if anything, has intensified as a result of my actions tonight.

"And to ensure we keep the refrigerator stocked with all your favorite treats," his wife continues, "you are going to listen to me and do as I say."

_That's odd. I think I'm having déjà vu._

"Now listen," Bulma says, turning now to me. She holds up a circular palm-sized machine in her hand. "This is the Dragon Radar. It will show you the location of each Dragon Ball. This is the only thing you can use to find and collect each one."

_Okay…?_ I raise an eyebrow slightly, not giving her the satisfaction of me asking outright just what she means by "the only thing".

"That means no ki attacks and no other machines."

_What the hell kind of stipulation is that?_

"You need boundaries, Chiru. First and foremost, _no killing_. People, animals, plants—do not hurt _anything._ I'm serious about this. You can't just go psycho and destroy everything around you all the time. Self-control: learn it. If you don't, we can't trust you. Plain and simple."

_What the—! Like I give a damn about your trust, you blue-haired piece of—_

"…and you may not use any machines. And Vegeta can't help you. You have to fly everywhere and do everything by yourself. Within the next forty…"—she checks her watch—"…seven hours from now."

I involuntarily pale as all of this begins to sink in.

"I know your body's sore, and I know you're tired," she tells me, tucking the Dragon Radar into my jacket pocket. Then she looks solidly into my eyes. "But I don't care about that. These are the consequences of your actions, Chiru, and you are going to feel each one of them acutely until you clear up this mess you've made."

I don't know why I'm not strangling her right now. I don't know why I'm letting her boss me around like this. This is all absolutely ridiculous. She—

"I've packed all your things now, so you're good to go," she says, tossing a backpack first to Vegeta, then to me. "Don't kill each other, stay safe, and get back here quick as you can."

Vegeta grunts in response as he swings the pack over his shoulder and heads for the door.

I stare at the bag in my hands, not moving.

"Clock's ticking," Bulma says curtly, tapping her watch.

I look up at her.

"If I'd wanted to kill him, I would have," I say. I don't know why I need to say it, but there it is. Something about these people makes me say things I would never say, would never want to say. I gnaw on my tongue, disgusted with myself.

Bulma hesitates, slightly taken aback by my abrupt disclosure.

"I need to know I can trust you," she finally replies.

I look away as I shrug on the backpack.

"Okay."

_Why am I bothering?_

I head off after Vegeta.

Not until Vegeta and I are well on our way to the first of these Balls does it strike me how ridiculous this scenario is. Tracking down seven "Dragon Balls," so I can placate the police by making some stupid wish so they feel better about some 7-Eleven-manager-by-day, pimp-by-night guy _they_ technically killed with _their_ firearms? This is utter bullshit. It's absurd. All of these creatures are insane, and this entire situation a farce.

So why am I playing along? How did my life come to this? I've trained since infancy to be a killer. My life's goals have been restricted to survival and patricide. What the fuck am I doing here, now, flying after some arrogant Saiyan, having to stare at his spandex-plastered ass for hours on end, just to find a bunch of mystical lizard nuts because a weird-haired middle-aged woman told me to so she can, of all things, _trust_ me?

A sharp-toned laugh bursts from my mouth. It's so out of place and disturbing that Vegeta looks over his shoulder at me.

"Are you utterly deranged now?" he sneers, not bothering to hide his disgust.

Not that he ever does anyway.

"Yes!" I shout. "How could I not be? You people—this entire planet—you're all crazy, and you've turned me crazy, too!"

His following chuckle carries through the air, and when it reaches my ears, it startles me into silence.

"If you think you've lost your mind now, just wait. You haven't seen anything yet."

He is not wrong.

This world is far more bizarre than I thought,I have to admit as a huge scaly tail sweeps in front of me, threatening to knock me aside. I leap away from it and charge between the beast's back legs, aiming to snatch the orange ball just below the trunk of its tale and—

A surprised yelp erupts from me as the beast suddenly _sits down on me_. In the next second the air from my lungs has burst from my mouth, and my arms scramble wildly at the ground trying to pull my body free.

Vegeta—the useless prick—is hovering a good hundred feet above me.

Cackling.

"Conquered by a mongrel so soon, bitch of Frieza? This monster's not even one of the biggest on this planet, and it's already kicked your ass—_with its own!_"

As far as I'm concerned, anyone who laughs that hard at his own jokes is a huge loser.

The beast won't budge, so I grip dirt and start to exert ki, but Vegeta descends in a second, one of his feet purposefully landing on the back of my head, which is, fortunately, not trapped under the multi-ton ass with the rest of my body. At the Saiyan's appearance, the beast whips its tail around at the new threat, but Vegeta deflects it easily and holds his ground.

"You know the rules," he reminds me gloatingly. When I open my mouth to curse him, his foot forces me to eat dirt.

_God damn…_

"HREAUGH!"

I bellow as I gather enough strength to shove off from the ground, knocking back both the Vegeta-sei-made and Earth-made monsters. Vegeta looks startled and pissed at the same time, and the monster roars behind me as it accidentally kicks one of its eggs from the nest and its parental protection. The egg rolls down the side of the hill, heading toward the lake. I touch back down to the ground, straightening my back and trying not to wince as bones that shouldn't make noise release an audible pop.

My eyes narrow dangerously at Vegeta. "Touch me again, and my foot will shove those damn rules so far up your ass, there'll be a word-for-word imprint on your brain, you son of a bitch."

Not a bad line and not a bad delivery, if I do say so myself. Good enough to put that asshole in his place.

So why is he smirking?

"Don't lose focus on the task at hand, lowly novice," he mocks.

_Ah!_

I turn and lunge for the orange ball again, this time keeping an eye out for mommy monster's leathery bulk of ass, but it's no where to be seen. I scoop up the Ball, but stop short of a quick retreat to look around for the missing threat.

"Where'd it go?" I ask, wary and confused.

"After its egg," Vegeta replies curtly, glaring at me with his arms crossed. "Which has sunk to the bottom of the lake by now if its shell hasn't broken. Either way, the life of the offspring in that egg is your responsibility. I could overlook your little outburst, but if that overgrown lizard's baby dies, then show's over, you failed."

"That's not my fault!" I shout, balling my fists.

"Why don't you tell me why nothing is ever your fault? I'm sure I'll get a laugh out of your pitiful excuses."

"Did you see me kick that egg? No! Did I piss me off? _No!_" I yell. "_The beast_ kicked the egg, and _you_ provoked me _on purpose!_ And what kind of dumb ass animal lays its round, roll-able eggs at the top of an incline? It's clearly too stupid to live, and if one of its offspring dies, I'm doing the entire species a favor!"

"This is no different from what happened in that store yesterday."

Oh great. Now he's preaching.

"You lost your temper, and it had negative consequences. Bulma decided to play god and send you out here to learn a lesson, and if she's ever going to let me back in that house, I have to make sure you learn that lesson, you sniveling brat. NOW GO RETRIEVE THAT GOD DAMN EGG BEFORE IT CRACKS, OR _I _WILL BE CRACKING _YOU!"_

Now I look startled and pissed. For a second I consider arguing with him, but think better of it. The sooner I'm done with all of this the better. So I drop the Dragon Ball and jet off down the slope toward the water.

_No good bastard toppin' my line_…

By a freak stroke of luck, the egg is still in one piece, and I manage to salvage it, much to the distressed delight of its mother, who was unable to pursue its young once it landed in the water. The big lizard growls lowly at me, wanting to attack, but hesitates lest it hurt its child. By using its own egg as incentive, I gently coax the brute back up the hill to its nest, setting the egg down amongst the dried grasses and surreptitiously swiping the Dragon Ball behind my back. Before the monster notices the switch, I'm up in the air, taking my backpack from Vegeta to store the orange orb inside.

"That took long enough," I grumble, rubbing my tired eyes with a sweaty dirt-stained palm.

"Indeed," Vegeta says. "And only six more to go."

"_Six more?_" I blurt out, disbelieving.

"That's right," he smirks. "Because six and one is seven. Didn't Frieza teach his little bastard child basic math?"

I bare my teeth at him and do not respond, instead examining the Dragon Radar for the next Ball. The last thing I need is his pompous ass trying to provoke me again, and I'll be damned if I play into his attempts. I locate the nearest Dragon Ball on the radar and head south before the Saiyan has a chance to say anything else.

It appears that the silent treatment will not be enough to dissuade Vegeta from what appears to be his new favorite topic of discussion: my parentage.

"The others are wrong, you know," he shouts down at me as I manually dig through piles and piles of sand for the Ball the radar claims is right below my feet. With infuriatingly arrogant amusement, Vegeta reminded me that I must do this by hand, so I do not harm or kill any scorpions or snakes or whatever the hell else might dwell beneath the surface in this miserable place. "You look more like Frieza than any who have seen him dares admit."

_Shut up shut up shut up!_

"Not just those murderous blood red irises," he continues, not even noticing—or more likely not giving a damn—that I've just unearthed a rattling reptile.

"But the feline slant to the eye. It evokes him, too."

I hold the snake's gaze, waiting for it to make the first move. Daring it to.

"I've never liked cats—too stuck-up and self-satisfied for their own good. Especially as it only takes one half-witted dog to run them into the ground and crush their pitiful skulls with its much stronger canine jaws."

The snake strikes out, but I bat its fanged head away, returning its subsequent furious hissing with my own.

"And speaking of skulls, you have the same ball-shaped head as Frieza. Not like a Dragon Ball, but more like those dark orange ones humans play with…basketballs. Your head resembles his in that way: round, hollow, essentially an empty sphere with a weak chin and ridiculous ears."

Again the snake lunges, and with a swift flick of the wrist, I catch it this time, grasping it by the neck, its dagger-like teeth mere inches from my face.

"…would love to bounce that skull off a gymnasium floor. Better yet, a concrete court…."

I throw the snake out of the hole and resume my excavation of the Dragon Ball, trying my best to stay busy enough not to listen to the hateful voice above me as it tosses down insult after insult.

"…the same pint-sized mooshed up nose. It looks like you were both too stupid to wear a spacepod strap, and every time you landed, the pod stopped but your face kept going…"

Anger escalating, I increase the rate of my digging, willing the force of my exertions and my ragged breathing to drown out his words.

"…slight stature for a so-called warrior, a good head shorter than even the most diminutive of Saiyans…"

_Looks who's talking?_ Particles of sand fly into my mouth and grind against my tongue. I spit.

"…raspy voice. You sound more like a man than your asexual son of a bitch father did…"

My fingers strike something hard, and a growl escapes my lips.

" …but not so asexual if he could rape your Saiyan mother..."

I swipe away the last handfuls of sand, finally unearthing the Ball. The weight of it feels good in my hand. Perfect, in fact, as I turn and aim.

And throw.

"…must have been a shameless wench to birth a loathsome half-bree—AUGHG!"

I smirk, amused and grateful he decided to position himself in front of the burning midday sun. He unintentionally enabled me to lock onto his position and connect the Dragon Ball soundly with his gigantic forehead. And he was foolishly too busy having his fun insulting me to be on proper guard. Arrogant Saiyan bastard made it all too easy.

And his pride will save me the trouble of a brutal punishment.

"Why didn't you catch it?" I call up to him, acting as guiltlessly as possible.

_With something other than your face?_ I snort to myself.

"I'LL KILL YOU FOR THAT, YOU VILE BITCH!"

"Look who can't control himself now?" I taunt with a sneer.

The Saiyan descends in a flash and stands threateningly before me. I meet his glare evenly, but say nothing more. Now that he is at my level, he will be the first to say something.

But the next thing I know, I can't breathe as my torso slides across his forearm and to the side. The spit I emit now is not deliberate, but rather the result of gravity and surprise as I drop to my knees, doubled over clutching the dent his fist has left in my abdomen. His foot connects with my side, flipping me over, and I lie on my back in the sand, the sun's light blinding me but for the flame of black hair obscuring the edge of this galaxy's greatest orb. He places his foot onto my stomach over my hands and applies pressure.

"You have a lot of fight in you." How I've come to hate his voice cannot be put into words. "Bulma said you can either learn to control it or get the fuck off this planet."

He presses his foot down even harder, and I'm pinned to the ground, helpless.

"You have one other option: learn to control it"—The force is too much; I squirm feebly as bile rises to my throat—"or I will beat it out of you. All of it."

And with that he removes his foot and kicks me over again, just in time for the bile not to choke me as it burns my esophagus on its way out. I lie panting and sick on the ground and feel the vague vibration of his footsteps as he walks away. How did I crumple so quickly? I lost before I could even realize it. I'm facedown next to a soggy patch of sand when moments before I was standing confidently, thinking I'd turned the tide my way. No, I'm not at my optimal energy level, and I haven't been since I got here, but I'm really starting to wonder…

…if I were, would the outcome be any different?

Something tells me that no, it wouldn't. And that realization hits me in the gut far harder than Vegeta's fists did.

Fuck, I hate this world.

To Be Continued…

A/N:

I meant for this chapter to be mostly comedic, but it took on a bit of the dramatic as well. Overall, I'm pleased with the chapter, and I hope you all enjoyed the one-on-one alone time between Vegeta and Chiru. And I swear to, swear to, swear to Kami this is NOT a Vegeta/OC fanfic. Vegeta and Chiru sort of have sparks flying between them (in that Saiyan "I hate you, you hate me, we might screw" sort of way), but they're a purely I-hate-you-and-you-hate-me-because-we're-far-too-alike-in-too-many-respects kind of relationship. Which is simply fun and does not at all encroach upon the Veggie/Bulma luv luv. ; )

And I miss Trunks and Goten, and I hope you guys miss them, too, so I will try my best to take care of the next parts of the story as quickly (and efficiently) as possible, so we can get them back in the picture. How's that sound? Good? I hope so. : )

Best to all,

Niach

P.S.

Longest chapter yet (I think). Shabam.


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